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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   &  CO. 
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JESUS  THE  CHRIST 


THE 


STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 
^Interpretation 


BY 


ELIZABETH    STUART    PHELPS 

•\ 

AUTHOR  OF   "  A  SINGULAR    LIFE,"   "  THE   GATES  AJAR,"   "  THE  SUPPLY 

AT  SAINT  AGATHA'S,"  ETC. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

(Cfre  ftiliersi&c  ^rcss,  Cambntiftr 

1898 


COPYRIGHT,    1897, 

BY   ELIZABETH  STUART   PHELPS  WARD 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


SEVENTEENTH  THOUSAND 


U)  32- 


"  A  man  whose  soul  is  absorbed  in  a  great  life's  work  is  apt 
to  disclose  his  own  mental  history  only  in  glimpses.  Christ 
was  no  exception  to  this." 

AUSTIN  PHELPS. 


Mfrt 


To  the  friends  and  critics  whose  sympathy  and 
scholarship  have  made  it  possible  for  me  to  overcome 
the  difficulties  under  which  this  work  has  been  done, 
I  owe  a  gratitude  beyond  words. 

E.  S.  P.  W. 


NOTE 

THIS  book  is  not  theology  or  criticism,  nor  is  it 
biography.  It  is  neither  history,  controversy,  nor  a 
sermon.  It  makes  none  of  the  claims,  it  assumes 
none  of  the  pretensions,  of  any  one  of  these.  It  is 
not  a  study  of  Jewish  life  or  Oriental  customs.  It 
is  not  a  handbook  of  Palestinian  travel,  nor  a  map 
of  Galilean  and  Judean  geography.  It  is  not  a 
creed;  it  speaks  for  no  sect,  it  pleads  for  no  doc- 
trine. 

It  is  a  narrative,  and  will  be  received  as  such  by 
those  who  understand  the  laws  of  narrative  expres- 
sion. Beautiful  romances  have  been  written  upon 
the  subject  which  these  pages  venture  to  approach ; 
but  this  is  not  fiction.  The  great  historical  facts 
that  revealed  the  Founder  of  Christianity  to  us 
have  been  carefully  considered.  No  .important  de- 
parture from  the  outlines  of  his  only  authorized 
biography  has  beguiled  the  pen  which  has  here  ,  / 
sought  to  portray  the  Great  Story  with  loving 
docility.  The  few,  unfamiliar  strokes  by  which""1 
these  outlines  have  been  sometimes  filled  have  been 
reverently  and  studiously  adjusted  to  the  compo- 
sition of  the  picture,  —  it  is  hoped  without  offense 
to  probabilities.  It  is  believed  that  these  proba- 
bilities are  so  reasonable  that  they  may  serve  to 


viii  NOTE 

deepen,  not  to  dissipate,  our  respect  for  such  know- 
ledge as  we  possess  concerning  the  life  of  Jesus 
Christ. 

A  student  of  this  subject,  who  comes  to  it  from 
outside  dogmatic  prepossessions,  is  amazed  —  one 
almost  says  appalled  —  at  the  conditions  of  thought 
through  which  he  must  approach  it.  The  Christie 
literature  is  one  vast  controversy.  Critic  contends 
with  critic,  and  theologian  with  theologian.  Bio- 
graphers and  commentators  differ  with  an  intensity 
which,  though  it  startles,  not  always  pleasantly,  is  a 
tribute  to  the  powerful  interest  of  the  topic,  and  a 
stimulus  to  its  study. 

The  memorial  of  the  Gospels  was  written  by  plain 
men  who  knew  little  of  literature,  nothing  of  science, 
but  much  of  the  central  Figure  of  their  times.  As  a 
fragmentary  biographical  record  of  ancient  origin, 
this  memorial  is  necessarily  subject  to  more  or  less 
personal  interpretation.  Among  what  we  may  call 
its  secondary  features,  there  are  few  in  the  treat- 
ment of  which  scholars  are  agreed. 

The  writer  of  this  narrative  is  not  unaware  of  the 
differences  among  New  Testament  critics  when  she 
chooses  between  them  such  aspects  of  many  events 
or  conditions  as  seem  to  her  best  for  the  purposes 
of  this  book. 

The  life  of  Christ  was  lived  to  inspire,  not  to 
confuse.  Little  things  are  volatile ;  the  great  are 
fixed.  Scholars  are  tenacious  of  detail,  for  they  hold 
the  values  of  accuracy  in  their  keeping.  But  Chris- 
tian scholars  are  generous  in  feeling,  for  they  hold 
the  treasures  of  their  faith  in  trust.  They  may  con- 


NOTE  ix 

tend  about  the  unimportant.  On  the  essential  they 
will  agree. 

What  does  it  signify  whether  the  star  of  Beth- 
lehem was  a  meteor  or  a  miracle  ?  What  does  it 
matter  whether  Jesus  was  born  in  one  year  or  the 
next,  in  this  month  or  that?  It  is  of  no  conse- 
quence whether  he  was  baptized  in  Jordan  River  or 
Jordan  region.  It  is  quite  immaterial  whether  the 
misfortunes  of  Mary  Magdalene  were  mental  or 
moral,  or,  indeed,  which  of  the  Marys  she  was.  The 
precise  chronology  of  the  unknown  feast  is  a  little 
question.  Whether  Jesus  revisited  Nazareth  once 
or  twice  is  a  point  not  worth  two  pages  of  contro- 
versy. 

The  important  things  —  all  that  any  of  us  need, 
all  that  most  of  us  care  for  —  are  few,  clear,  and 
unquestionable.  Jesus  Christ  lived  and  died,  and 
lived  again  after  death.  He  lived  a  life  explicable 
upon  no  other  view  of  it  than  his.  He  founded  a 
faith  comprehensible  upon  no  other  interpretation  of 
it  than  his  own.  He  himself  is  Christianity.  He 
is  the  greatest  force  in  civilization :  the  highest 
motive  power  in  philosophy,  in  art,  in  poetry,  in 
science,  in  faith.  He  is  the  creator  of  human 
brotherhood.  To  apprehend  him  is  to  open  the 
only  way  that  has  yet  been  found  out  of  the  trap 
of  human  misery.  His  personality  is  the  best  expla- 
nation yet  given  of  the  mystery  of  human  life.  It 
offers  the  only  assurance  we  have  of  a  life  to  come. 

The  butterflies  of  immortal  hope  are  delicate 
organisms,  easily  impaled  by  skeptical  naturalists, 
and  eagerly  catalogued  with  other  lost  ideals. 


x  NOTE 

Modern  interrogation  has  raised  many  queries 
with  which  no  student  of  this  theme  can  be  unfa- 
miliar, but  on  which  it  is  not  the  mind  of  this  book 
to  dwell. 

It  is  the  fashion  of  our  times  to  trouble  one's  self 
about  the  supernatural ;  as  if  (for  aught  we  know 
to  the  contrary)  the  supernatural  might  not  be  the 
most  natural  of  all  things  !  It  is  the  intellectual 
mode,  and  Christian  scholarship  has  not  altogether 
escaped  it,  apologetically  to  investigate  what  are 
called  miracles. 

There  is  not,  there  never  was,  there  never  may  be, 
a  miracle  as  strange  as  the  life  of  Jesus  the  Christ. 
He  was  the  Miracle.  Explain  him.  There  will  be 
no  difficulty  with  any  lesser  wonder. 

Biographies  of  Christ  are  many.  They  are  all 
learned,  and  most  of  them  are  long.  They  are 
crowded  with  the  erudition  which  scholars  have 
demanded  of  each  other,  and  possess,  in  spite  of  it, 
much  of  the  interest  which  the  ordinary  human 
being  seeks  and  needs,  but  which  he  needs  without 
being  obliged  to  seek  too  hard  for  it.  To  this  mass 
of  instructed  work  I  am  a  thankful  debtor.  It  is 
with  confidence  in  the  kind  tolerance  and  welcome 
of  students  obviously  far  wiser  than  myself,  that  I 
venture  to  add  this  unpretending  book  to  a  stately 
company. 

But  men  are  many  and  scholars  are  few.  It  is 
with  more  confidence  in  the  warm,  human  world 
outside  of  books,  that  this  one  hopes  to  find  its 
friends. 

There  has  come  to  me,  during  the  time  given  to 


NOTE  xi 

the  growth  of  this  work,  an  experience  always  full 
of  wonder  and  of  charm.  Often,  on  waking  in  the 
morning,  after  days  of  the  most  absorbing  and 
affectionate  study  of  the  Great  Life,  the  first  con- 
scious thought  has  been :  "  Who  was  with  me 
yesterday  ?  What  noble  being  entered  this  door  ? 
In  what  delightful,  in  what  high  society,  have  I 
been !  "  I  felt  as  if  I  had  made  a  new,  a  supreme 
acquaintance. 

I  pass  over  this  feeling  to  those  who  can  under- 
stand it,  or  who  may  share  it ;  and  wish  it,  from  my 
heart,  for  those  who  do  not. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

PRESAGE 1 

I.   THE  BOY 41 

II.   A  BEAUTIFUL  SCENE  ........    62 

III.  THE  WILDERNESS 77 

IV.  THE  FIRST  WONDERS 94 

V.  IN  His  OWN  COUNTRY 115 

VI.   THE  HEALER 137 

VII.  THE  PREACHER  ;  AND  THE  DEAD  ....  161 
VIII.  THE  RABBI,  AND  THE  WOMAN 182 

IX.  ACROSS  THE  LAKE 205 

X.  FIVE  THOUSAND  GUESTS 221 

XL  A  DECISIVE  CRISIS 240 

XII.  THE  MOUNTAIN  :  AND  THE  TOMB  ....  259 

XIII.  INTO  JERUSALEM 287 

XIV.  IN  THE  TEMPLE 312 

XV.   GETHSEMANE 336 

XVI.  ON  TRIAL 358 

XVII.   GOLGOTHA 380 

XVIII.   THE  RESURRECTION  AND  THE  LIFK  .        .  .  396 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

ARTISTS  PAGE 

JESUS    THE    CHRIST  (from  Christ 

and  the  Rich  Young  Man)  .  H.  Hofmann  .  .  Frontispiece 

BETHLEHEM From  a  photograph  ...  20 

ARRIVAL  OF  THE  SHEPHERDS  .  .  H.  LeEolle 24 

THE  HOLY  FAMILY M.  Feuerstein 32 

THE  MADONNA P.  A.  J.  Dagnan-Bouveret  36 

THE  REPOSE  IN  EGYPT  .  .  .  .  L.  O.  Merson 38 

His  FIRST  VIEW  OF  JERUSALEM.  O.  Mengelberg 48 

CHRIST  IN  THE  TEMPLE  .  .  .  .  H.  Hofmann 54 

THE  BAPTISM  OF  CHRIST  .  .  .  Frank  V.  DuMond  ...  72 

THE  JORDAN From  a  photograph  ...  80 

NAZARETH From  a  photograph  .  .  .  126 

CHRIST  THE  HEALER E.  Zimmermann  ....  142 

CHRIST  BY  THE  SEA Alexander  Bida  .  .  .  .164 

CHRIST  AND  THE  FISHERMEN  .  .  E.  Zimmermann  ....  202 

JAIRUS'  DAUGHTER H.  Hofmann 226 

JERUSALEM  FROM  MOUNT  OF 

OLIVES  . From  a  photograph  .  .  .  302 

THE  COSNACULUM  (said  to  be  the 

House  of  the  Last  Supper)  .  .  From  a  photograph  .  .  .  336 
CHRIST  AT  THE  LAST  SUPPER  .  .  Leonardo  da  Vinci  .  .  .  344 

CHKIST  IN  GETHSEMANE  .  .  .  .  E.  K.  Liska 352 

THE  BETRAYAL C.  Aug.  Geiger  ....  358 

CHRIST  AND  PILATE  —  "  ECCE 

HOMO" A.Ciseri 384 

GOLGOTHA J.  L.  Gerome 394 

THE  SUPPER  AT  EMMAUS  (from 

a  Copley  print,  copyright  by 

Curtis  and  Cameron)  .  .  .  L.  L'Hermitte 408 

THE  ASCENSION G.  Biermann  .  .  412 


THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 


PRESAGE 


CALL  it  the  year  of  Rome  749,  or  the  year  5  be- 
fore our  era.  The  land  was  Palestine. 

Fifteen  hilltops  watched  the  village.  This  high 
country,  eighty  miles  away  from  the  capital,  shut  in 
the  inhabitants  of  little  towns  with  much  the  same 
general  effects  that  we  find  to-day,  in  mountain  re- 
gions where  the  people  cannot  easily  get  away  from 
their  silent  homes  and  close  horizons ;  they  depend 
more  for  such  knowledge  of  life  as  they  have  upon 
the  world's  coming  to  them,  than  upon  their  going 
to  it. 

There  was  a  valley,  cutting  these  hills  from  east 
to  west.  It  threw  up  a  small  plateau,  on  which  a 
settlement  condensed  rather  than  straggling,  hung 
with  a  certain  half -melancholy,  half-cheerful  pictur- 
esqueness  ;  an  effect  peculiar  to  a  limestone  country, 
where  the  low  tints  of  gray  and  the  cold  tones  of 
white  weigh  the  landscape  ;  but  where  "  green  things 
growing  "  find  generous  hospitality  in  the  cultivated 
soil. 


2  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

There  was  a  fountain;  the  only  one  in  the  vil- 
lage. The  women  went  with  their  urns  on  their 
shoulders  to  get  water  for  the  family  supply  ;  they 
stood,  graceful,  slow  of  motion,  lazy  and  lovely, 
taking  each  her  turn.  It  was  approaching  the  cool 
of  the  day.  The  women  chattered  like  birds ;  they 
raised  their  eyes  to  the  mountains  indifferently. 
The  sky  was  taking  on  a  great  preparation  of  color ; 
but  the  women  preferred  to  hear  what  was  to  be 
said. 

A  girl  put  down  her  urn,  and  looked  at  the  sky. 
She  did  not  talk.  She  moved  away  a  little  from 
the  other  women,  and  leaned  against  a  high,  white 
rock.  Her  chin  was  lifted,  her  eyes  upraised ;  her 
mouth  had  a  sweet  expression  ;  her  thoughts  were 
high.  She  had  the  manner  of  one  who  preferred  to 
be  alone  without  knowing  why. 

The  other  women  rustled,  gossiping,  away.  The 
girl  followed  slowly,  with  obvious  reluctance  ;  she 
walked  alone.  The  urn  stood  steadily  upon  her 
head ;  her  carriage  was  straight  and  noble.  She 
was  of  middle  height,  or  possibly  a  little  above  it. 
She  had  a  fair  complexion,  blonde  hair,  and  bright, 
hazel  eyes.  Her  eyebrows  were  arched  and  dark ; 
her  lips  ruddy,  and  full  of  kindness  when  she  spoke. 
Her  face  was  long  rather  than  round ;  her  hands 
and  fingers  were  finely  shaped.  "  She  had  no  weak- 
ness of  manner,  but  was  far  from  forwardness. 
She  had  no  pride,  but  was  simple,  and  free  from 
deceit.  She  showed  respect  and  honor  to  all.  She 
was  very  gentle,  in  all  things  serious  and  earnest ; 
she  spoke  little,  and  only  to  the  purpose."1 
1  Tradition. 


PRESAGE  3 

The  women  of  her  race  are  easily  beautiful  at  any 
time ;  and  the  region  in  which  she  lived  was  re- 
marked for  the  attractiveness  of  its  feminine  inhabi- 
tants. Thoir  very  dress  was  more  ornamental  and 
effective  than  in  some  other  portions  of  the  province. 
To  this  day  the  same  is  true.  In  the  hill  and  valley 
country  to  which  the  village  clung,  there  was  a  spe- 
cial richness  of  growth ;  foliage,  fruit,  flower,  and 
woman  developed  gracefully  and  with  luxuriance. 

Now  the  maiden  was  a  poor  girl,  born  of  work- 
ing people,  reared  by  them,  and  living  among  them. 
Yet  she  came  of  the  lineage  of  a  powerful  and  popu- 
lar king.  This  country  maid,  this  laborer's  child, 
was  born,  not  to  the  purple,  but  of  it.  She  might 
be  called  a  royal  peasant.  Her  veins  ran  with  the 
richest  blood  of  the  nation ;  her  hands  knew  its 
commonest  toil.  A  patrician  ancestry  and  a  plebe- 
ian training  make,  for  certain  ends,  the  most  desir- 
able inheritance  that  can  befall  one.  She  had  it. 

To  call  her  devout,  is  to  say  that  she  was  some- 
thing more  than  a  good  churchwoman.  In  a  girlish 
way  she  was  a  sweet  student  of  the  Law  and  the 
Prophets,  but  she  was  more  than  that.  She  was 
one  of  the  rare  natures  in  which  faith  is  like  breath. 
We  see  its  gentle  pulsations,  and  respect  them  un- 
consciously as  we  would  a  law  of  physiology.  Many 
phrases  have  been  invented  to  describe  the  soul  that 
seeks  the  divine  because  it  is  the  perfectly  natural 
and  inevitable  thing  for  it  to  do ;  but  none  of  them 
are  satisfactory  to  us  ;  perhaps  because  most  of  us 
are  too  far  from  that  type  of  being  ourselves  to  un- 
derstand it.  We  can  honestly  revere  dedication 


4  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

when  we  believe  in  it,  however,  and  hers  it  is  im- 
possible to  question. 

She  was  one  of  those  exquisite  spirits  that  are 
able  to  rely  on  truth  which  they  cannot  comprehend, 
without  any  waste  of  the  nature  in  doubt  or  evasion. 
She  believed  so  utterly  in  the  God  of  her  people 
that  He  was  more  real  to  her  than  any  other  fact 
of  life. 

The  month  was  April ;  and  this  is  to  say  the 
bloom  of  the  year  in  Palestine.  The  early  spring 
and  quick,  luxuriant  growth  of  the  warm  climate 
gave  to  that  month  something  of  the  characteristics 
of  our  own  June.  It  was  the  time  of  sun  and  splen- 
dor. It  was  the  time  of  leaf  and  blossom.  It  was 
the  time  when  hope  and  fulfillment  met  in  the  face 
of  the  fields,  and  when  the  countenance  of  the  sky 
and  the  breath  of  the  atmosphere  hold  that  some- 
thing separate  from  this  earth  which  appertains  to 
all  perfect  beauty.  The  dullest  of  us  are  conscious 
of  it,  when  the  fire  burns  in  the  young  grass-blade 
and  the  color  in  the  opening  flower,  the  dazzle  in 
the  air,  and  the  depth  in  the  heavens. 

The  Galilean  girl  felt  the  holiness  of  beauty,  for 
she  was  capable  of  feeling  everything  pure  and  ex- 
quisite ;  and  she  kept  herself  alone,  to  dwell  upon  the 
gentle  thoughts  developed  in  her  by  the  divinity  of 
the  day  elected  for  the  marvel  which  glorifies  the 
name  of  one  little  mountain  town  forever. 

The  hour  of  evening  prayer  among  her  people  fell 
at  the  setting  of  the  sun  and  the  coming  of  the  stars. 
But  hers  was  no  ordinary,  mechanical  nature,  such 
as  prays  because  it  is  ecclesiastical  and  civil  law  to 


PRESAGE  5 

do  so  at  an  ordered  time.  Prayer  with  her  was  the 
luxury  of  the  soul. 

She  trod  the  village  street  abstractedly.  Her 
feet,  from  modest  habit,  led  her  home.  Without 
speaking,  she  emptied  her  urn  into  the  water-jar 
that  stood  near  the  door,  and  quietly  freshened  the 
herbs  that  floated  on  the  top  of  the  water.  She 
wished  to  be  alone.  The  commoner  minds  about 
her  were  still  dissipated  in  their  distractions ;  hers 
had  already  entered  into  that  revery  which  is 
neither  wholly  thought  nor  wholly  prayer,  but  par- 
takes of  the  reality  of  both. 

In  the  space  between  the  sunset  and  the  twilight 
the  girl  stole  up,  unnoticed,  to  the  roof  of  the  house, 
—  the  flat  roof,  in  all  hot  countries  the  place  of 
family  meeting,  of  relief  from  the  scorching  weather, 
of  indulgence  in  private  grief  or  of  prayer  ;  in  fact, 
among  the  poor,  it  was  the  only  possible  place  of 
retirement  at  home.  Her  poverty  was  not  of  the 
squalid,  but  only  of  the  strenuous  kind ;  and  the 
usual  conveniences  or  the  usual  comforts  of  a  re- 
spectable home  were  hers.  But  these,  in  the  East, 
were  always  few  enough. 

The  hour  of  the  evening  sacrifice  arrived.  The 
cool  breeze  from  the  west  died  down.  Peace  fell 
with  the  calm. 

The  sun  had  set  over  the  valley.  The  view  from 
the  house-top  was  not  a  broad  one  ;  it  was  restricted 
by  the  hills.  A  little  farther  up  the  great  slopes,  a 
wide  panorama  (often  called  one  of  the  fairest  in  the 
world)  opens  splendidly.  But  the  scenery  apparent 
from  the  young  girl's  home,  was  not  of  the  kind 


6  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

that  carries  the  mind  far  into  vague  dreams  of 
beauty ;  rather  of  the  sort  which  defines  familiar 
outlines,  —  the  architecture  of  the  closing  hills, 
the  cleft  of  the  narrowing  valley,  the  sights  of  the 
village  street ;  the  kind  of  outlook  which  makes 
humility  and  duty  seem  more  natural  than  restless- 
ness, acceptance,  than  interrogation. 

But  the  luxuriant  vegetation  of  Nazareth  was 
fair  to  see,  even  if  one  saw  little  more.  The  green 
that  is  half  gold  melted  over  the  hillsides,  and  ran 
riot  in  the  valley.  Flowers  were  at  a  high  tone. 
The  red  lamps  of  the  pomegranates  were  burning 
freely.  Fruit  gardens  touched  in  rich,  metallic 
colors  to  the  landscape ;  gold  of  apricot,  with  pale, 
silver  leaves,  purple  of  grape,  and  yellow -green 
of  fig,  passed  each  in  its  time.  Hollyhocks,  rose 
and  red  and  yellow,  unfurled  their  banners.  All 
in  their  season,  too,  lilies  of  differing  hues  and 
petals  would  be  abloom  ;  the  fairest  of  them,  tall, 
white,  slender,  maidenly,  like  girls  in  sweet  proces- 
sion, or  like  angels  in  a  vision. 

In  the  village,  roof-gardens  sometimes  added  flow- 
ers to  the  gentle  joys  of  home.  One  of  these  sky- 
gardens  belonged  to  the  poor  home  of  which  we 
think,  —  a  little,  cubic  dwelling  looking  like  a  block 
—  and  tall,  white  flowers  stood  above  the  vines,  lean- 
ing against  the  evening  sky. 

The  girl  crept  among  them.  Her  eyes  were  on 
the  heavens.  There  was  an  aureola  in  her  heart. 
Her  prayer  had  passed  the  phase  of  words.  She 
had  ceased  to  address  God,  she  had  come  so  near 
Him. 


PRESAGE  7 

The  flood-tide  of  the  sunset  ebbed  away  from  the 
houses  of  the  villagers,  her  neighbors.  These  houses 
were  white,  of  limestone ;  vines  and  the  shadows  of 
vines  crept  freely  over  the  houses,  softening  their 
dazzle.  Flocks  of  doves  swayed  over  and  settled 
upon  the  roofs ;  when  these  were  of  delicate  shades, 
softly  darker  than  the  roof,  the  effect  was  charming  ; 
as  the  twilight  fell,  the  doves  scattered  to  their  cotes 
or  slept  in  those  which  they  had  found  within  the 
house  itself. 

One  of  these  lovely  birds,  —  in  all  ages  and  in 
most  countries  the  symbol  of  purity,  —  dipping 
across  the  dusk,  and  hanging  over  the  roof,  called 
the  maiden's  attention  to  the  appearance  which  had 
awaited  the  slow  turn  of  her  head,  and  the  con- 
centration of  her  gentle  eyes  from  their  devout  ab- 
straction, upon  itself. 

There  is  always  something  which  makes  one  hold 
the  breath  when  a  bird  of  the  air  brushes  one,  or 
even  swings  near  enough  to  have  been  caught  if  one 
had  wished.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  imagi- 
nation has  connected  the  spirits  of  the  unseen,  or  the 
departed,  with  the  visits  of  birds.  In  Palestine 
the  dove  was  especially  loved  and  cared  for ;  it  was 
sacred  to  the  uses  of  the  Temple,  and  religious  asso- 
ciation was  always  busy  with  it.  A  gentle  mind  like 
that  of  this  girl  would  turn  tenderly  to  the  move- 
ments of  the  soft  wings  which  arrested  her  notice. 

Then,  did  she  see  the  Angel?  Did  he  break  a 
stalk  of  one  of  the  white  flowers,  as  he  stirred,  and 
so  hold  it  in  his  hand,  smiling  to  reassure  her  by  the 
ease  and  cordiality  of  the  act  ? 


8  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Whence  came  he  ?  Had  he  swept  from  the 
heights  of  distant  Lebanon,  whose  white  head,  turn- 
ing gray  in  the  twilight,  was  darkening  as  if  the 
mountain  drew  a  mantle  over  it  ?  Had  he  floated 
on  the  departing  cloud  that  rode  like  a  chariot  of 
fire  past  the  sun  whose  own  face  was  hidden  from 
the  marvel?  Or  had  he  formed  from  the  ether, 
where  he  stood,  against  the  faint  sky,  quietly  and 
naturally,  as  inspiration  forms  in  the  soul,  and  faith 
in  the  heart  that  is  fit  for  it?  Whatever  of  the 
strange  was  in  the  manner  of  his  coming,  the  angel 
came. 

II 

There  have  been  in  all  ages  three  kinds  of  per- 
sons :  those  who  never  see  mystical  appearances, 
those  who  think  they  do,  and  those  who  do  ;  and 
the  three  types  may  be  confounded.  It  is  also  to 
be  suggested  that  visitors  from  an  invisible  life,  if 
such  there  are,  and  whoever  such  there  are,  may  be 
responsive  to  the  absence  or  the  presence  of  wel- 
come, like  any  other  superior  or  sensitive  being. 
Angels,  like  people,  might  come  where  they  are 
wanted,  trusted,  or  expected. 

In  fact,  there  are  laws  of  spiritual  hospitality, 
breach  of  which  may,  for  aught  we  know  to  the  con- 
trary, deprive  a  human  creature  of  the  mystical 
privileges.  The  soul  of  this  Hebrew  girl  was  host- 
ess to  all  that  was  pure  and  perfect,  delicate,  ethe- 
real, devout.  As  the  flower  receives  the  sun  at 
dawn,  as  the  earth  the  rain  at  drought,  she  instinc- 
tively received  the  divine. 


PRESAGE  9 

The  angel  stood  quietly.  He  seemed  to  wish  not 
to  alarm  the  girl.  She  thought  him  a  spirit  of  high 
rank.  He  spoke  with  the  tenderness  natural  to 
strength  and  to  superiority  alone.  Was  he  used  to 
stand  in  the  presence  of  God  ?  Yet  he  said,  "  Fear 
not,  Mary." 

How  astonishing;  the  conversation  which  followed  ! 

O 

The  scene  moved  on  steadily  to  its  solemn  climax. 
Question  and  answer  succeeded  with  increasing 
courage  on  the  part  of  the  Galilean  girl,  and  with 
growing  definiteness  on  that  of  her  celestial  guest. 
Clearly  but  gently  she  was  given  to  understand  that 
she  had  not  been  made  the  subject  of  an  inconse- 
quent apparition,  such  as  were  frequent  enough  in 
Oriental  experience  or  imagination ;  but  that  she 
was  the  agent  of  the  most  tremendous  revelation 
which  this  planet  has  ever  known. 

Chosen  out  of  all  the  world,  the  Hebrew  maiden 
whose  qualifications  for  her  solemn  mission  were  the 
simple,  womanly  ones  of  a  pure  heart  and  a  devout 
life  received  the  angel's  message  as  she  who  could 
be  chosen  by  it  would  be  sure  to  do.  The  fiat  of 
Deity  was  in  the  magnificent  attitude  of  the  angel ; 
he  stood  tall,  erect,  majestic.  Awed,  the  woman 
fell  upon  her  knees  before  the  messenger  of  God, 
and  veiled  her  face  from  sight  of  him.  "Be  it 
unto  me,"  she  said,  "  according  to  thy  word." 

Now,  when  he  perceived  that  Mary  understood 
the  import  of  his  embassy,  the  angel  left  her.  Ga- 
briel, a  great  spirit,  mighty  in  rank,  went  his  way 
to  that  mysterious  condition  of  life  from  which  in- 
visible beings  may  wander  —  why  not  ?  —  not  for 


10  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

petty  purposes,  but  when  sufficient  cause  exists  to 
summon  a  superior  to  an  inferior  creature  from  a 
higher  to  a  lower  system  of  things. 

The  woman  was  left,  in  a  world  like  ours,  to  her 
unique  experience. 

She  had  received  from  the  vision  a  prediction 
whose  nature  so  utterly  transcends  all  mortal  laws 
and  all  mortal  experience  that  he  would  profane  the 
very  courts  of  mystery  who  should  descend  to  offer 
for  it  any  human  explanation. 

There  is  no  quibbling  possible  with  the  marvel. 
It  must  be  rejected  or  accepted  on  its  own  great 
grounds.  No  compromise  between  fact  and  fancy 
has  dignity  in  the  isolation  of  the  case. 

Shall  we  be  less  high-minded  than  the  instinct  of 
the  race  and  the  faith  of  the  ages  ? 

Take  the  wonder  as  it  is  told. 

The  incarnation  of  Deity  is  an  idea  older  than 
the  time  when  the  Galilean  girl  in  Nazareth  re- 
ceived a  spirit's  message.  This  mystical  possibil- 
ity has  been  a  favorite  with  certain  crude  and 
ancient  religions.  Instances  might  be  given  of  it, 
but  not  here ;  they  jar  upon  the  lofty  and  beautiful 
character  of  the  Christian  story,  which  so  far  sur- 
passes them  in  purity,  in  pathos,  and  in  philosophy, 
that  one  has  not  the  rudeness  of  heart  to  introduce 
them  in  its  matchless,  opening  chapter. 

Was  all  the  fable  but  a  perplexed,  prophetic 
yearning  for  the  fact?  At  last,  in  this  simple,  hal- 
lowed way,  has  history  met  it  ? 

Gabriel  seems  to  have  been  something  of  a  phi- 


PRESAGE  11 

losopher  (as  well  as  altogether  an  angel)  when  he 
reminded  the  astonished  woman,  at  the  close  of  his 
announcement  of  the  incredible  facts,  that  with  God 
nothing  is  impossible.  These  were  astute  words 
under  the  circumstances,  and  worthy  of  a  superior 
intelligence.  The  argument  admitted  of  no  reply. 

Mary  listened  to  it  gently.  Her  soul  was  a  lily. 
All  motherhood  has  been  dignified  forever  by  the 
spotless  mystery.  All  humanity  is  nobler  for  the 
delicacy  of  the  womanly  nature  from  which  the  Son 
of  the  Highest  should  be  born  into  a  low  world. 


Ill 

The  story  of  the  Gospels  was  written  by  men. 
Men  have  studied  and  expounded  it  for  two  thousand 
years.  Men  have  been  its  commentators,  its  trans- 
lators, its  preachers.  All  the  feminine  element  in 
it  has  come  to  us  passed  through  the  medium  of 
masculine  minds.  Of  the  exquisite  movements  in 
the  thought  and  feeling  of  Mary  at  this  crisis  of 
her  history,  what  man  could  speak?  Only  the 
hearts  of  women  can  approach  her,  when,  quite 
without  angelic  endorsement  or  even  human  protec- 
tion, she  is  left  to  meet  the  consequences  of  the  will 
of  God  upon  her  life. 

The  angel  had  disappeared  in  his  own  ether. 
The  music  of  a  celestial  voice  was  replaced  by  the 
chat  of  the  villagers,  the  plain,  usual  people  to 
whom  marvels  did  not  happen ;  who  would  under- 
stand nothing.  She  who  had  heard  the  accents  of 
heaven  shrank  from  the  tones  of  earth.  Fragments 


12  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

of  family  conversation  —  the  note,  though  most  fa- 
miliar, often  least  sympathetic  to  the  listener  —  had 
a  foreign  sound. 

Had  Mary  a  mother  living?  or  loving?  It  is 
touching  to  know  that  the  first  act  of  the  wondering 
girl,  after  the  angel  had  explained  the  nature  of  her 
future  to  her,  was  to  seek  the  sympathy  of  another 
woman,  and  that  woman  not  of  her  own  household. 

There  was  a  village,  Juda  by  name,  in  the  south 
of  Palestine  in  the  hill  country  of  Judaea ;  it  was 
a  hard  journey  of  about  five  days  from  Nazareth. 
There  Mary  had  a  friend.  She  took  the  journey. 

An  elderly  woman,  reticent,  dignified,  devout,  her- 
self the  subject  of  a  strange  experience,  received 
the  girl.  Mary  crept  into  her  arms  ;  she  found  it 
hard  to  speak,  even  to  Elizabeth.  Then  she  found 
it  harder  to  be  silent.  Her  sensitive  nature  vibrated 
between  exaltation  and  anxiety.  There  is  a  song 
famous  and  sacred  in  musical  history  —  an  inimita- 
ble outburst  of  religious  and  poetic  feeling.  In  the 
home  of  Elizabeth  Mary  uttered  the  Magnificat. 
The  two  women  confided  in  each  other.  Mary 
thought  of  the  hard  journey  back  to  Nazareth  ;  of 
the  caravan  of  curious  neighbors  or  kinsfolk  which 
she  must  join ;  her  heart  sank.  Oh,  to  stay  on 
and  on,  protected  and  respected,  quiet,  and  safe! 
Dreading  to  return  to  her  own  home,  she  lingered 
in  the  house  of  her  relative.  Shielded,  trusted, 
understood,  how  should  she  face  the  cruel  storm 
that  awaited  her?  She  clung  to  this  brief,  slight 
anchorage. 

The  suffering  element  in  the  life  of  the  son  began 


PRESAGE  13 

early  in  the  soul  of  the  mother.  A  desolate  mater- 
nity forecast  the  melancholy  of  the  child. 

And  now,  the  inexorable  action  of  the  greatest 
drama  in  the  world  began  to  move.  The  claims  of 
her  father's  *  roof  summoned  the  absent  girl.  Her 
kinswoman  might  shelter  her  no  longer.  With 
dignity,  with  sweetness,  and  in  silence,  Mary  gath- 
ered her  courage,  and  came  back  with  her  secret  to 
her  home  and  her  neighbors. 

The  angel  of  the  mystery  had  borne  a  significant 
name,  —  Gabriel,  the  Might  of  God,  or  a  Mighty 
One  is  God.  But  Gabriel  had  vanished.  No  angel 
was  visibly  courier  to  Mary,  when,  in  the  weakness 
of  woman,  she  took  the  weary  journey  back  again 
to  face  her  unknown  fate. 


IV 

In  his  shop  in  Nazareth,  Joseph  the  carpenter 
worked  drearily.  Hammer  and  saw  fell  from  his 
dispirited  hand ;  his  basket  of  wooden  nails  lay 
unused.  His  dejected  eyes  wandered  through  the 
opening  which  served  as  door  and  window  to  his 
simple  place  of  business.  His  heart  was  far  from 
his  work,  and  heavy  as  doom. 

This  grave,  honest  man,2  a  middle-aged  person, 
with  experience  of  life  behind  him,  loved  the  girl  to 
whom  he  was  betrothed.  His  restrained  and  unself- 
ish tenderness  had  chosen  her  with  that  decision 

1  Joachim,  born  in  Nazareth  ;  her  mother,  Anna,  native  of  Beth- 
lehem.    Tradition. 

2  A  widower.     Tradition. 


14  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

which  belongs  to  mature  affection,  whose  depth  is  to 
a  youthful  fancy  as  the  Mediterranean  Sea  beyond 
the  mountains  was  to  the  spring  at  Nazareth.  The 
whole  nature  of  the  man  was  involved.  His  mind 
moved  heavily  about  the  central  fact.  The  cruelest 
of  disasters  seemed  to  have  struck  his  promised 
wife  —  this  sweet,  this  saintly  girl.  The  marvel 
that  had  befallen  her  was  scoffingly  received. 

This  elect  and  tender  being  was  bearing  in  patient 
loneliness  an  unspeakably  pathetic  lot. 

Thus  again,  the  awful  law  of  sacrifice  which  was 
to  become  the  ruling  passion  in  the  life  of  the  son, 
began  in  the  courageous  and  noble  maternity  fore- 
shadowing his  character. 

Joseph,  the  betrothed  of  Mary,  meditating  on  her 
virtues  and  her  beauty  and  her  danger  until  he  was 
sick  at  heart,  fell  asleep  at  last,  from  weariness,  in 
his  shop  among  his  tools.  It  is  easy  to  see  the  car- 
penter, almost  as  he  was.  Ages  move  and  customs 
vanish,  but  certain  facts  remain,  —  the  shape  of  a 
shaving  cut  by  a  sharp  edge  from  wood  is  the  same, 
and  so  is  the  fashion  of  a  manly  heart. 

The  betrothed  of  Mary  woke  from  his  sleep, 
resolved.  The  Jews  were  a  people  accustomed  to 
place  great  significance  upon  dreams,  especially 
upon  those  of  a  sacred  character,  and  Joseph  had 
dreamed  the  dream  which  was  to  decide,  from  a 
practical  point  of  view,  the  fate  of  the  world. 

Had  he  carried  his  terrible  perplexity  in  prayer 
to  the  very  gates  of  sleep  ?  And  had  God  met  it 
there,  because  it  was  ready  to  be  met  ?  The  car- 
penter rose,  refreshed  and  relieved.  He  had  in  this 


PRESAGE  15 

manner,  occult  to  us  and  to  our  time,  but  perfectly 
natural  to  him  and  to  his,  received  the  command 
most  welcome  to  his  loyal  heart.  He  had  been 
directed  to  trust  and  to  wed  his  promised  wife. 

Betrothal  was  an  important  rite  among  his  peo- 
ple, not  less  so  than  actual  marriage.  Betrothal 
was  beautifully  called  "the  making  sacred."  It 
was  a  formal,  festive  occasion,  lasting  several  days. 
A  great  social  affair  was  made  of  the  whole  scene. 

Joseph  and  Mary,  being  poor,  had  been  quietly 
betrothed.  No  invitations  to  a  costly  feast  were 
sent  out ;  they  passed  their  vows  in  the  simplest 
and  severest  manner.  Nevertheless,  the  vows  were 
passed.  The  sanctity  of  the  relation  was  unim- 
peachable. Mary  awaited,  in  the  seclusion  of  her 
troubled  home,  the  will  of  God  and  of  men  upon 
her  future.  Her  eyes  widened  and  darkened  with 
patient  sadness.  How  piteous  her  position  no  man 
has  ever  told  us ;  few  have  guessed,  and  none  could 
understand. 

At  this  crisis  in  the  story  one  straightforward, 
chivalrous  act  set  everything  right.  Joseph  the 
carpenter,  being  of  royal  blood,  strode  like  a  man 
through  the  gossip  of  the  village,  and  took  his  pro- 
mised bride  to  be  his  wife.  In  the  Oriental  phrase 
and  custom,  this  "  redeemed  "  her.  In  the  shelter 
of  her  husband's  home  misapprehension  could  not 
touch  her,  and  gossip  might  forget  her.  Has  his- 
tory, or  has  reverence,  ever  done  justice  to  Joseph  T 
It  seems  hardly.  In  our  admiration  for  the  ever- 
womanly  which  Mary's  ideal  has  left  in  a  world 
that  needed  it,  we  have  a  little  overlooked  the  ever- 


16  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

manly,  the  simple,  noble,  loyal  deed,  the  gentleman 
mechanic  who  knew  how  to  love  a  woman  and  to 
protect  her,  thinking  more  of  her  and  less  of  himself, 
as  a  man  should  do.  And  of  this  ideal,  too,  the 
world  has  need. 


The  political  situation  among  the  race  to  which 
Joseph  and  Mary  belonged  was,  at  this  time,  ex- 
tremely interesting.  The  Hebrews  were  above  all 
things  a  hero-loving  nation ;  and  their  heroes  were 
dead.  They  were  a  people  of  a  marked  literary 
quality,  and  their  literature  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Their  poets,  like  all  other  men  of  importance  among 
them,  were  of  a  religious  temperament  and  bore  the 
name  of  prophets.  The  Jews  revered  their  pro- 
phets. Now,  at  the  time  of  which  we  write,  there 
were  no  prophets.  Most  nations  undergo  crises  in 
which  the  higher  qualities  among  their  leaders  sink 
underground  for  a  time  like  subterranean  rivers. 
Such  a  crisis  was  now  drawing  down  the  Hebrews. 
The  hero  -  worshipers  were  without  heroes.  The 
idealists  were  perishing  for  ideals.  The  thinkers 
were  suffering  for  stimulation.  The  common  citi- 
zen was  dully  and  thoroughly  disheartened. 

The  Jews  were  notable  in  this  respect,  that  they 
had  experimented  at  a  theocracy  and  had  failed  in 
it.  Their  dejection  was  proportional  to  their  de- 
feated aspiration.  It  was,  after  all,  a  fine  idea,  that 
of  selecting  the  Almighty  for  a  chartered  Ruler,  and 
accepting  nothing  less  than  his  personal  control. 
This  superb  national  conception  was  apparently  a 


PRESAGE  17 

doomed  one,  for  the  Hebrews  were  a  conquered  na- 
tion, and  had  been  for  nearly  forty  years. 

In  certain  respects,  more  humiliating  than  en- 
slavement to  Babylonia,  Greece,  or  Egypt,  was 
enslavement  to  Rome.  By  the  irony  of  fortune 
these  proud  people  were  now  subjects  in  their  own 
land,  were  but  the  disdained  provincials  of  a  vast 
empire.  This  is  to  say,  that  CaBsar  Augustus  occu- 
pied the  Roman  throne,  and  Herod,  his  vassal  king, 
the  palace  at  Jerusalem. 

From  a  time  near  the  beginning  of  the  national 
history  the  religious  poets  of  the  Jews  had  foretold 
a  strange  event.  Even  Moses,  the  law-giver,  had  in- 
timated it.  The  great  poet  Isaiah  had  sung  of  it 
like  a  sibyl.  The  strenuous  Daniel  had  insisted  on 
it  like  a  homesick  captive.  The  national  records 
preserved  it  as  dreary  mines  preserve  the  secret  of  a 
strange  and  cheerful  jewel. 

The  theocracy,  in  a  word  (that  was  the  idea)  had 
not  been  neglected  by  its  invisible  King.  Jehovah 
had  never  forgotten  the  people  who  had  elected  to  be 
his  subjects.  A  substitute  appointed  by  Him  would 
appear  before  the  ruin  of  the  nation  was  complete  ; 
would  unite  the  scattered  tribes,  would  mend  the 
broken  machinery  of  government ;  would  grasp  the 
shattered  power,  restore  the  lost  glory,  and  make 
the  future  splendid. 

The  appearance  of  this  deputy  of  God  was  ex- 
pected by  this  wretched  and  poetic  people  with  a 
confidence  which  is  the  more  striking  when  we  come 
to  the  denouement  of  -the  story.  Whoever,  whatever, 
he  should  be,  —  wherever,  however  he  should  mani- 


18  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

fest  himself  —  the  Wonder  was  to  come.  To  this 
unknown,  unseen,  unborn,  was  given  the  name  of  the 
Messiah,  or  the  Anointed  ;  a  recognition  of  a  fact 
which  the  mass  of  the  people  were  exceedingly  dull 
at  understanding  :  that  he  was  to  have  a  sacred  as 
well  as  a  political  character.  The  rich  imagination 
of  the  nation  had  always  been  smouldering  about 
this  being.  But  a  touch  was  needed  to  set  it  afire. 
He  was  the  Hero  of  heroes.  To  his  mysterious 
image  all  their  disappointed  hero-worship  clung. 

In  the  year  of  which  we  speak,  "  all  the  world  " 
(such  was  the  imperial  audacity  of  the  phrase)  was 
complaining  under  especial  grievance.  A  census 
preparatory  to  extra  taxation  was  ordered ;  and  the 
consequence  was  a  tumult.  The  people  were  bit- 
terly angry ;  but  escape  from  the  great  hand  of 
Rome  was  impossible.  Caesar  Augustus  was  ruler 
of  the  world.  Herod,  his  creature,  controlled  more 
territory  than  any  dead  Jewish  King  had  ever  done. 
The  once  splendid  and  sacred  throne  of  David  now 
existed,  a  pitiable  farce,  only  to  extend  the  forces 
of  execrated  and  alien  heathenism.  Raging  and 
impotent,  the  subjects  prepared  to  obey. 

To  Nazareth,  as  to  other  villages  in  Palestine,  the 
Roman  fiat  came. 

Long  and  severe  were  the  journeys  required  of  the 
country  people  who  must  answer  to  this  enrollment 
edict.  Every  citizen  was  obliged  to  register  himself 
at  the  town  whence  his  family  had  sprung.  This 
involved  a  national  commotion.  The  Jews  were  not 
only  in  the  stir  of  revolt,  but  in  the  irritation  of 


PRESAGE  19 

travel,  —  poor  of  pocket,  uncomfortable  in  body,  and 
sore  at  heart. 


VI 

Two  plain  people  of  Nazareth  started  at  dawn  one 
winter  day  to  take  one  of  these  annoying  journeys. 
Joseph  and  Mary,  husband  and  wife,  traveled  as 
poor  people  must ;  on  foot,  or  with  one  beast  of 
burden  between  them. 

There  was  a  little  town,  about  six  miles  south  of 
Jerusalem,  between  seventy  and  eighty  from  Naza- 
reth. Bethlehem  was  the  birthplace  of  David  the 
King ;  and  Joseph  the  builder,  descendant  of  David, 
must  register  there. 

Mary,  his  wife,  went  with  him.  Why  ?  She,  too, 
was  a  daughter  of  kings.  Did  she  own  some  bit  of 
property  in  Bethlehem  ?  —  real  estate,  perhaps,  un- 
marketable, but  taxable,  such  as  only  made  her 
"  land  poor ;  "  giving  her  no  income,  but  yielding 
some  to  Rome  ?  Did  she,  too,  register  ?  But  this 
was  not  necessary.  Women  were  not  obliged  to 
present  themselves  personally;  a  written  report  of 
their  property  sufficed  for  them.  Why,  then,  did 
Mary  —  who  had  the  gravest  of  reasons  at  that 
time  for  wishing  rest  and  shelter  —  take  that  cruel 
journey  over  one  of  the  roughest  of  Palestinian 
pathways  ? 

Precisely  because  she  had  reasons  for  doing  the 
thing  that  her  heart  craved.  And  her  heart  craved 
that  she  should  at  that  time  of  all  others  be  near 
her  husband,  who  understood  her.  Joseph  must 
go  to  Bethlehem,  and  go  just  then.  Mary  would 


20  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

not  allow  him  to  leave  her  behind  alone.  The  cir- 
cumstances were  too  unusual.  Her  need  of  him 
was  absolute.  Indeed,  it  might  not  have  been  safe 
for  her  to  stay  at  home  unprotected. 

There  was  another  reason ;  but  how  far  this  influ- 
enced her  only  the  heart  of  Mary  ever  wholly  knew. 
Did  she  share  this  visionary  idea  with  the  quiet  man 
who  loved  and  guarded  her,  as  they  came  down  from 
the  hill-country  into  the  caravan  route  ?  Or  did  she 
keep  it  shyly  to  herself  ? 

Her  child  would  have  been  born  in  Nazareth,  but 
for  this  accident  of  the  census.  But  was  it  only  an 
accident  that  the  census  must  come  into  the  question 
just  then?  —  that  the  family  must  register,  and  in 
Bethlehem  ?  Was  it  one  of  those  divine  incidents 
in  which  the  great  Will  rides  over  little  human  wills, 
and  brings  everything  out  as  no  one  could  possibly 
have  expected,  as  no  one  could  have  planned  ?  For 
Mary  was  a  reader  of  the  poets  of  her  people  ;  and 
learned  in  all  their  Scriptures.  A  thousand  years 
ago  those  ancient  dreamers  had  associated  strange 
things  with  the  town  of  Bethlehem.  Did  she  re- 
member them?  If  she  did,  could  she  discuss  them? 
There,  it  had  been  written,  the  Governor  of  her  peo- 
ple should  be  sought.  There  the  Wonderful  should 
enter  the  world.  Could  she  dwell  on  this,  and  hold 
her  courage  ?  Could  she  forget  it,  and  be  Mary  ? 

Strictly  speaking,  there  were  no  roads  between 
Nazareth  and  Bethlehem.  Home  built  roads,  but 
not  at  this  time  for  her  enslaved  Hebrews.  The 
caravan  routes  that  traversed  Palestine  were  hard 
traveling.  Kough  past  rudeness  were  the  foot-ways 


PRESAGE  21 

and  the  hoof-ways  that  led  from  Nazareth  down 
through  the  valley,  over  mountain  side,  and  rolling 
rock,  and  jagged  limestone,  and  through  sliding 
dust ;  a  severe  journey  of  five  days  or  more,  as  you 
might  make  it,  according  to  one's  means  of  locomo- 
tion or  the  strength  of  the  travelers. 

The  wife's  store  of  strength  was  small,  and  the 
journey  dragged.  She  was  such  a  young  creature  ! 
—  a  mere  girl  —  and  delicate  of  organization,  as  we 
know. 

Think  of  it  as  December,  too,  and  that  means  the 
chilly  season  in  Palestine,  with  roads  across  the 
plains  in  bad  condition.  The  rains  were  over ;  sun- 
shine smote  the  hills,  and  the  silver  leaves  of  the 
olives  glanced  like  little  steel  swords  in  the  wet 
light.  Even  frost  was  possible  at  that  time  of  the 
year.  Snow  was  not  unheard  of. 

The  two  travelers  arrived  in  Bethlehem  at  night, 
foot-worn  and  chilled  and  faint.  The  wife,  perish- 
ing of  fatigue,  had  passed  the  stage  of  physical  suf- 
fering when  one  takes  any  care  or  thought  for  what 
is  to  happen  next.  Because  of  her  weakness,  they 
had  lagged  behind  the  other  travelers,  and  the  town 
was  already  brimming  over  with  strangers  like  them- 
selves. Every  house  was  crowded.  Her  anxious 
husband  took  her  from  threshold  to  threshold  in 
vain.  The  climb  to  the  village  up  a  steep  hill  had 
added  a  last  hardship.  A  faint  light,  swinging  on 
a  rope  across  a  doorway,  signified  the  village  inn. 
They  toiled  up ;  the  woman  half  dead  of  this  last 
effort.  But  the  khan  could  not  admit  them. 

Alarmed  by   the   condition  of   his  wife,  Joseph 


22  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

persisted  manfully  in  his  determination  to  find  her 
shelter.  Mary  asked  no  question,  expressed  no 
concern.  Her  head  fell  upon  her  breast.  The 
poor,  homesick,  young  creature  was  dumb  with  suf- 
fering. Oh,  the  mistake  of  coming  on  this  miser- 
able journey !  She  thought  of  her  home  at  Naza- 
reth, of  her  bed,  perhaps  of  her  mother's  face  ;  or 
of  that  other,  Elizabeth,  who  had  understood  and 
cherished  her. 

Dully,  at  length,  she  heard  her  husband  say  that 
there  was  a  stable  behind  the  inn,  and  that  for 
the  common  humanity  of  the  deed,  the  people  of 
the  khan  would  let  her  in.  He  carried  her  to  the 
stable :  she  crept  among  the  straw,  like  the  animals 
around  her;  and  there — hastened  probably  by  her 
cruel  journey  —  the  anguish  of  motherhood  over- 
took the  exhausted  wife. 


VII 


Mary,  presently,  looked  about  the  stable.  Wo- 
men are  merciful  to  each  other  in  this  one  respect 
at  least,  and  we  are  not  forbidden  to  think  that 
some  matrons  of  the  inn  had  ministered  to  the 
homeless  young  traveler.  The  child  was  not  dressed, 
but  wrapped  tightly  in  a  long  band,  —  the  baby- 
clothes  of  the  East.  The  women  had  left  the  young 
mother,  now,  with  her  husband  and  the  cattle.  She 
faintly  regarded  the  stable. 

The  khan  to  which  Joseph  and  Mary  had  applied 
was  not  a  comfortable  place ;  and  the  stable  in 
which  the  baby  was  born  was  a  rude  affair.  Mary 


PRESAGE  23 

saw  that  it  was  a  cave  in  the  heart  of  a  rock ;  a 
species  of  grotto.  A  little  flat  lamp  of  clay  whose 
wick  floated  in  oil,  or  a  rude  kind  of  lantern 
made  by  straining  waxed  cloth  over  a  frame  of 
rings,  was  allowed  her.  It  struggled  feebly  with 
the  damp  darkness.  By  the  weak  light  she  saw  the 
cattle,  prevented  from  sleeping  by  the  presence  of 
their  unusual  neighbors,  and  perplexedly  rumina- 
ting. Straw  was  about,  and  hay  and  provender. 
Mud  was  beneath.  The  walls  of  the  grotto  dripped. 
She  and  Joseph  were  alone  —  no,  not  alone  :  there 
lay  the  child,  breathing  beside  her. 

It  must  have  been  far  on  in  the  night,  proba- 
bly towards  morning,  that  she  stirred  uneasily,  and, 
out  of  fitful  slumber,  broken  by  conscious  suffer- 
ing, turned  again,  broad  awake,  and  looked  about 
her. 

No,  it  was  no  dream.  She  was  not  at  home  in 
happy  Nazareth.  Strange  to  the  eye,  strange  to  the 
ear,  strange  to  the  heart,  were  her  rude  surround- 
ings. She  was  used  to  decent  poverty,  not  to  out-  ^ 
cast,  squalid  scenes  like  this.  Joseph  sat  silently 
regarding  her.  Had  Joseph  not  slept?  A  tired 
man,  himself  in  need  of  rest  —  how  loyal  was  he 
to  his  precious  charge !  But  Joseph  had  arisen, 
and  stood  straight  and  strong  between  her  eyes  and 
the  entrance  to  the  grotto.  Voices  were  audible. 
Joseph  was  speaking.  Question  and  answer  fol- 
lowed. Visitors  were  in  the  stable. 

Day  was  breaking.  The  gray  light  crept  in  with 
a  kind  of  reverence,  as  if  the  morning  were  on  its 
knees.  In  the  cold  color  Mary  saw  the  visitors. 


24  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Their  calling  was  stamped  on  their  dark,  weather- 
tinted  faces,  and  on  their  rough,  warm  clothing. 
They  wore  mantles  of  woolen  stuff,  and  heavy, 
sheepskin  cloaks.  They  carried  powerful  sticks, 
strong  enough  to  kill  a  wild  beast.  They  were 
shepherds.  Some  fierce  dogs  accompanied  them. 
Mary  did  not  speak.  She  lay  on  the  straw,  and 
listened  perplexedly.  The  court  of  the  khan  was 
quite  open  to  the  public.  The  poor  young  mother 
had  not  been  even  allowed  the  privacy  sacred  to  her 
emergency.  That  had  been  hard  enough ;  but  visi- 
tors !  And  now  !  She  winced  when  the  intruders, 
all  speaking  fast  in  their  excitement,  pushed  their 
way  towards  her.  Their  eyes  were  fastened  eagerly 
upon  one  object.  She  heard  exclamations  and  an- 
swers, and  the  low,  controlled  replies  of  Joseph. 
She  saw  the  great,  tanned  fingers  of  the  men  point- 
ing at  the  baby.  She  heard  one  say  to  another  :  — 

"  That  was  the  sign  !  " 

And  another  answer  :  — 

"  In  a  manger !     There  he  is  !  " 

Then  the  shepherds  spoke  all  together,  their  sen- 
tences falling  over  each  other.  But  Mary  —  for  her 
ear  was  delicate  and  quick  —  made  out  as  much  as 
this  :  in  their  pastures,  a  mile  or  more  out  of  Beth- 
lehem, these  strong,  not  untender  men,  iron  of  fist 
to  wolves  and  robbers,  silken  of  touch  to  sheep  and 
lambs,  —  men  wakeful  of  eye  and  ear  by  profession, 
apt  to  see  or  hear  what  others  slept  through,  sud- 
denly, in  the  deep  of  the  night,  had  seen  the  sky 
blossom  with  celestial  forms  and  faces,  and  heard 
the  ether  ring  with  celestial  tongues  and  songs. 


PRESAGE  25 

Half  in  terror,  half  in  delight,  they  had  hurried 
up  to  the  town  to  tell  and  to  test  their  wonderful 
experience.  Had  the  baby  been  in  a  respectable 
bed,  had  he  been  born  like  a  comfortable  child,  they 
could  not  have  found  him.  Only  one  newborn  in- 
fant in  Bethlehem  lay  in  the  manger  of  a  public 
stable. 

Now  these  were  not  ordinary,  coarse  herdsmen, 
but  men  selected  for  a  superior  position  —  that  of 
guarding  the  flocks  dedicated  to  the  uses  of  the 
Temple;  therefore  they  and  their  ewes,  and  the 
lambs  destined  for  sacrifice,  were  encamped  within 
easy  distance  of  Jerusalem  all  the  year  round. 
Winter,  like  the  summer,  found  these  men  at 
their  posts  of  duty.  They  were  important  servants 
of  the  Temple,  not  without  respect  among  the  peo- 
ple, certain  to  command  a  hearing.  They  went 
straight  out  from  the  stable,  and  told  their  ex- 
perience to  anybody  and  everybody  in  the  crowded 
town.  The  village,  overflowing  with  guests  from 
all  parts  of  Palestine,  listened  to  this  strange  tale  ; 
and  travelers,  returning  to  their  homes,  carried  the 
rumor  of  it  widely. 

The  shepherds  went  back  to  their  sheep.  They 
had  seen  their  only  angels.  The  next  night,  the 
next  year,  brought  no  more.  They  talked  all  their 
lives  about  this  one  great  experience.  Did  they 
search  the  skies  midnight  upon  midnight  for  that 
flower  of  life  ?  Did  they  tell  their  children's  chil- 
dren how  the  splendid  Oriental  zenith  burst  that 
only  time  into  celestial  bloom?  How  the  soft, 
"vyinter  wind  broke  into  articulate  speech  ?  How  he 


26  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

looked  —  the  mighty  one,  who  was  General  of  the 
Heavenly  Host  ?  And  how  they  found  that  spirits 
spoke  the  truth.  For  there  was  the  child ;  and  the 
manger. 

But  the  young  mother  did  not  speak  when  she 
heard  about  the  angels,  and  the  sign.  She  was 
glad  when  the  shepherds  were  gone  out  of  the  stable. 
She  looked  at  the  baby  mutely.  Her  heart  was  like 
a  white  flower,  closing  over  a  drop  of  dew.  She 
kept  these  things,  and  pondered  them. 

Joseph,  too,  was  quiet.  He  was  one  of  the  plain 
men  who  make  ho  fuss  about  duty ;  but  he  had  been 
in  a  hard  position.  He  thought  about  the  shepherds, 
the  angels,  their  startling  message,  and  the  dream 
of  his  in  Nazareth.  It  was  impossible  to  think  how 
it  would  have  been,  if  he  had  not  trusted  it,  and 
her.  The  eyes  of  the  girl  wife  questioned  her  hus- 
band gently.  The  mysterious  child  slept  beside 
them.  The  hand  of  Joseph  silently  clasped  that  of 
Mary. 


VIII 

Kepler,  the  astronomer,  in  the  year  1604  had  a 
pupil  superior  to  the  common  run  of  students,  —  a 
thoughtful  man,  with  his  eyes  open,  and  not  afraid 
to  say  what  he  saw  with  them.  In  December  of 
the  preceding  year,  a  conjunction  of  two  of  the 
superior  planets  (Saturn  and  Jupiter)  had  inter- 
ested all  scholars  of  the  sky.  In  a  few  months,  Mars 
had  marched  into  the  society  of  these  celestial  conx- 


PRESAGE  27 

rades,  making  one  of  the  important  stellar  events 
of  the  time.  Following  this  conjunction,  in  the 
autumn  of  1604,  there  flashed  into  the  sky  a  new 
and  short-lived  star.  This  the  pupil  of  Kepler 
pointed  out  to  his  master,  and  this  the  master  stud- 
ied. It  was  a  very  brilliant  star,  more  like  a  dia- 
mond than  a  comet,  and  sparkling  with  changing 
colors. 

This  star  burned  for  a  year,  waned  and  wasted 
out  of  sight.  But  its  life  was  long  enough  for  the 
great  astronomer  to  conceive  a  great  idea. 

Kepler  was  familiar  with  astrology,  as  all  masters 
of  an  accurate  science  ought  to  be  with  its  kindred 
imaginative  studies  ;  and  he  knew  quite  well  how 
the  dreamers  of  the  East  in  the  times  of  which  we 
are  thinking  were  governed  by  the  speculations  of 
that  art.  Kepler,  from  the  astronomer's  point  of 
view,  fell  to  studying  certain  events  which  are  inter- 
wound  with  the  opening  scenes  in  the  history  of 
Christianity.  The  result  was  one  of  the  dramatic 
theories  of  science,  liable  to  be  held  only  by  men  of 
imagination. 

According  to  the  calculations  of  the  great  astron- 
omer, in  the  Roman  year  747,  or  at  a  time  closely 
preceding  the  birth  of  the  strange  child  in  the  Beth- 
lehem stable,  a  similar  conjunction  of  Saturn  and 


Jupiter  had  appeared  in  the  Oriental  heavens,  and 
Mars  had  joined  the  two  in  the  spring  of  748,  mak- 
ing a  brilliant  exhibition.  Kepler  boldly  hazarded 
the  belief  that  the  course  of  this  conjunction  was 
followed,  like  that  of  1604,  by  a  temporary  star. 
His  position  has  not  been  altogether  approved  by 


28  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

modern  astronomers,  but  it  is  far  too  interesting  to 


omit  from  any  record  of  a  curious  historical  fact  on 
which  astronomy  has  a  peculiar  judicial  claim. 

Persia  at  that  time,  as  more  or  less  at  all  times, 
was  a  camp  of  dreamers  and  astrologers.  The  study 
of  the  skies  was  a  passionate  pastime.  The  sagest 
of  men  gave  their  lives  to  it.  All  men  were  inter- 
ested in  it.  Accurate  knowledge  of  the  skies  they 
had  not,  but  its  place  was  filled  by  what  they 
thought  they  knew,  or  wished  to  believe.  They  were 
constantly  on  the  watch  by  night. 

The  Eastern  sages  knew  little  enough  about  as- 
tronomy as  Kepler  knew  it ;  but  they  saw  the  great 
conjunction,  and  it  produced  a  strong  effect  upon 
them.  They  took  note  that  the  conjunction  oc- 
curred in  the  Constellation  of  Pisces,  which  was  sup- 
posed by  Chaldean  astrologers  to  be  immediately 
connected  with  the  future  of  Judea.  Thus  the 
thoughts  of  the  sages  were  naturally  turned  in  that 
direction.  Whether  they  had  been  studying  the 
subject  for  a  year,  or  more  or  less,  is  not  important, 
and  cannot  be  averred.  The  point  of  interest  is, 
that  a  few  of  the  star-gazers  of  the  East  were  so 
profoundly  impressed  by  this  planetary  movement 
that  they  left  their  homes  and  occupations,  and 
formed  a  little  traveling  company  to  investigate  its 
meaning.  But  this  extraordinary  journey  was  not 
entirely  a  scientific  expedition.  It  had  a  political 
or  historical  character.  Mystical  or  devout  motives 
influenced  these  men.  A  rather  remarkable  reason 
for  this  existed. 


PRESAGE  29 

IX 

Astrologers  from  the  earliest  times  had  always 
associated  heavenly  disturbances  with  the  birth  of 
great  men.  The  expectation  of  the  advent  of  an 
extraordinary  being  among  the  Jewish  people  was 
not,  at  that  time,  entirely  confined  to  the  Jews. 
For  Persia,  the  far  East,  the  civilized  world  to  a 
certain  extent  shared  it.  Perhaps  the  Hebrew  cap- 
tives, scattered  past  collection  among  alien  peoples, 
had  tried  to  console  themselves  by  whispering  the 
proudest  hope  of  their  proud  nation  in  their  captors' 
ears.  Perhaps  the  social  conditions  of  the  times  — 
too  miserable  for  the  heart  to  dwell  on,  and  too  cor- 
rupt for  the  modern  pen  to  describe  —  had  given 
force  to  the  rumor.  Decent  men  who  thought,  and 
studied,  and  aspired  had  reached  the  stage  of  despe- 
ration which  precedes  despair.  They  were  ready 
for  any  social  or  political  experiment:  they  were 
attentive  to  any  sign  of  the  times. 

Each  man  took  out  his  private  fears  or  hopes  for 
the  condition  of  his  age,  in  his  own  way.  The  sen- 
sualist sank,  the  tyrant  tortured,  the  slave  despaired, 
the  politician  schemed,  the  rebel  fought,  the  captive 
conspired,  the  dreamer  slept,  the  devout  prayed,  the 
mystic  mused. 

The  students  of  the  sky  followed  the  march  of  the 
stars. 

The  Eastern  travelers,  coming  by  an  unknown 
route,  reached  Jerusalem.  Here,  these  idealists 
asked  strange  questions,  and  they  received  signifi- 
cant replies.  Arrived  at  the  capital  of  the  Jewish 


30  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

nation,  and  at  the  very  altar  of  the  Jewish  faith, 
they  found  themselves  still  perplexed.  These  "  pe- 
culiar people,"  these  educated  slaves,  did,  indeed, 
confidently  expect  to  be  freed  by  a  heaven-born  de- 
liverer, to  be  ruled  by  a  divinely  appointed  King. 
But  nothing  had  been  seen  or  heard  of  him.  The 
Magi,  with  the  persistence  of  men  who  have  sacri- 
ficed too  much  for  an  idea  to  abandon  it  easily, 
betook  themselves  to  the  palace.  Here  they  had 
an  interview  with  one  of  the  most  abhorrent  and 
abhorred  of  monarchs. 

Rome,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  was  acquainted 
with  the  rumors  about  the  yet  unidentified  Jewish 
King.  The  haughty  Roman  eagle  hung  upon  the 
Jewish  Temple,  but  the  powerful  Messianic  expecta- 
tion had  reached  the  Roman  intellect.  Herod  was  a 
coward  as  well  as  a  tyrant,  and  he  feared  nothing 
more  than  the  renationalization  of  the  enslaved 
people. 

He  appealed  to  the  priests  and  teachers  of  his 
remarkable  and  dreaded  captives.  Their  governing 
body,  the  Sanhedrin,  was  called  together.  The 
question  was  officially  put  to  them  :  Where  was  this 
King  of  theirs  to  be  expected,  or  to  be  sought? 
With  ecclesiastical  precision  the  anxious  monarch 
was  referred  to  the  records  or  Scriptures  of  the  Jew- 
ish people,  which  indicated  Bethlehem  as  the  birth- 
place of  their  national  hero. 

The  capital  was  now  on  fire  with  the  matter.  The 
visit  of  the  Eastern  strangers  had  become  the  event 
of  the  day.  With  a  stroke  of  imperial  and  diaboli- 
cal diplomacy,  Herod  feigned  a  warm  interest  in  the 


PRESAGE  31 

errand  of  his  guests,  and  suavely  directed  them  to 
Bethlehem ;  the  condition  of  the  royal  politeness 
being  that  they  should  report  the  result  of  their  in- 
vestigations to  himself. 

The  group  of  mystics,  a  little  awed  by  the  splen- 
dor and  affability  of  the  palace  and  the  monarch, 
but  less  than  commoner  men,  started  at  once  for 
Bethlehem. 

Men  who  have  cast  down  all  the  affairs  of  life  to 
travel  for  seven  months,  or  a  year,  or  more,  over 
deserts  and  mountains,  and  through  fords  and  forests, 
and  in  peril  of  beasts  and  of  robbers,  in  pursuance 
of  an  idea,  are  not  the  men  to  be  too  much  impressed 
with  political  power  or  splendor ;  still,  they  accepted 
Herod  at  his  word,  —  being  foreigners  and  not  fully 
aware  how  little  that  was  worth.  A  brilliant  ap-^ 
pearance  in  the  skies,  evidently  temporary,  and  which 
had  for  some  time  puzzled  them,  now  seemed  to  them 
to  point  towards  Bethlehem ;  to  confirm  their  own 
astrological  beliefs  and  the  Jewish  traditions  and 
directions. 

Were  the  hardships  of  that  long  itinerary  draw- 
ing to  an  end  ?  Does  the  star  know  and  love  the 
student  of  the  sky,  that  it  will  not  mislead  him? 
The  Magi  trod  the  streets  of  Bethlehem  with  ar- 
rested breath. 

The  mysterious  child  was  now  some  weeks  of  age  ; 
the  family  were  no  longer  boarders  in  the  stable  of 
the  khan.  They  may  have  been  house-guests  or 
lodgers  at  the  inn  ;  but  this  they  could  not  afford 
for  any  length  of  time.  If  the  mother  of  Mary 
had  been  born  in  Bethlehem,  had  she  not  relatives 


32  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

there  ?  —  people  whose  home  had  been  too  full,  or 
whose  welcome  had  been  too  chilly  at  the  time  of 
the  registration,  to  admit  the  travelers  ? 

Then,  remember,  had  come  the  sacred  shepherds 
of  the  Temple,  talking  everywhere,  telling  a  wonder- 
ful tale.  Then,  the  strange  birth  of  the  strange 
child  became  the  topic  of  the  town.  Then,  the  out- 
cast family  became  respectable,  interesting.  Then, 
the  love  of  the  dramatic,  which  is  strong  in  the  Jew- 
ish nature,  took  hold  of  this  vivid  situation.  Did 
some  of  Mary's  relations,  moved  by  the  sudden 
publicity  given  to  family  affairs,  perhaps  stirred  by 
some  higher  feeling  of  regret,  or  shame  for  neglected 
hospitality,  persuade  her  to  accept  a  tardy  welcome 
under  their  roof  ? 

At  all  events,  the  Eastern  travelers  found  the 
family  readily.  All  Bethlehem  was  talking  of  them, 
and  their  affairs.  The  temporary  star  looked  down 
on  the  village  gossip  coldly.  Its  light  and  its  life 
were  beginning  to  waste. 

Were  the  travelers  Persians  ?  Arabians  ?  Princes 
or  astrologers,  or  both  ?  How  many  were  there  ? 
What  tongue  did  they  speak  ?  Greek,  perhaps,  — 
then  the  Court  language  of  the  East.  Or  did  inter- 
preters connect  them  with  the  Aramaic  as  spoken  in 
Bethlehem  ? 

We  only  know  that  they  found  the  object  of  their 
wearisome  and  romantic  journey.  The  star  and  the 
child  hRl  met  at  last. 

Mary,  his  mother,  was  with  him.  She  was  used, 
by  this  time,  to  a  certain  amount  of  public  curiosity 
in  her  child.  Many  visitors  had  come  to  see  her ; 
but  none  like  these. 


THE-HOLV   FAMILY 


PRESAGE  33 

The  grave  group  in  their  foreign  garments,  these 
serious  men,  travel-worn,  and  travel-wise,  regarded 
the  girl  mother  for  an  instant  critically.  Then 
their  glance  fell  and  rested  upon  the  baby.  Their 
eyes  questioned  and  answered  each  other  as  they 
consulted  together  in  their  own  tongue,  probably 
never  heard  before  by  the  Galilean  girl.  The  study 
of  a  scroll,  the  march  of  a  star,  the  dreaming  of 
dreams,  the  daring  to  come  out  and  be  different 
from  other  men,  the  energy  of  ideas  that  could  not 
be  proved  until  one  had  trusted  them  —  all  this,  all 
these,  were  justified  at  last. 

Here  was  the  Star  Child. 

Moved  by  a  mute  and  common  impulse,  the  Magi 
fell  upon  their  foreheads.  Startled,  the  young  mo- 
ther turned  her  sweet  face  and  mildly  looked  at  them. 

Thus  and  then,  we  have  the  first  worshipers 
(many  centuries  have  given  us  many  millions) 
bowed  before  the  Madonna  and  the  Child.  But  the 
Eastern  sages  did  not  kneel  to  the  woman.  It  was 
the  nature  of  the  men  and  of  the  times  to  forget  the 
woman.  They  had  not  traveled  all  that  distance, 
all  that  time,  to  see  a  Jewish  mother. 

The  Magi  bent  their  mitred  heads,  and  knelt 
before  the  child.  Deeper  than  the  impulsive  curi- 
osity or  even  the  deference  of  the  Temple  Shepherds 
was  the  profound,  intelligent  reverence  of  these 
learned  foreigners. 

Mary,  looking  on,  perplexed  and  gentle,  saw  sud- 
denly that  the  visitors,  still  upon  their  rug  before 
the  baby,  were  opening  and  offering  to  the  child 
strange  things  —  products  of  the  far  East. 


34  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Joseph,  coming  in,  and  being  wiser  than  Mary 
about  such  matters,  perceived  at  once  the  meaning 
of  what  he  saw. 

For  the  gifts  in  the  hands,  on  the  laps,  of  the 
Magi  were  the  typical  offerings  of  subjects  to  a 
King,  and  in  no  other  wise  to  be  interpreted. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  Here  was  the 
child  —  to  whom  Joseph  and  Mary  were  becoming 
quite  accustomed,  already  wondering  if  the  baby 
were  so  very  different  from  others  after  all ;  a  little, 
helpless,  human,  nestling  being,  to  be  warmed  and 
cherished  on  a  mother's  heart. 

And  there  were  the  sages  worshiping  a  monarch. 
The  glitter  of  gold  shone  out  of  dusky  bags ;  it  did 
uot  attract  the  baby's  eyes.  Spicy,  Oriental  odors 
filled  the  air.  Frankincense  sent  up  its  pungent 
perfume,  strong  as  the  heart  of  love.  And  there, 
—  ah,  there  was  myrrh,  bitter  as  life,  and  as  old  to 
the  fancy  of  the  East  as  the  ceremonials  of  death. 

Only  the  wise  recognize  power  in  the  weak.  The 
Eastern  scholars  knelt  humbly  and  happily  before 
the  babe  of  Bethlehem.  It  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult for  the  learned  to  follow  their  thoughts.  Mary 
could  not.  But  she  clasped  the  child,  and  won- 
dered. 

The  visitors  went  away  quietly. 

Their  faces  wore  a  rapt  and  reverent  look.  They 
were  found  to  be  men  not  inclined  to  talk,  and 
local  curiosity  made  but  little  out  of  them. 

They  quickly  vanished  from  the  village,  and  lost 
themselves  in  the  first  convenient  caravan  to  Arabia. 
For  one  of  those  mystical  reasons  which  often  have 


PRESAGE  "  36 

the  most  practical  effects  on  human  affairs,  they 
struck  Jerusalem  from  their  homeward  route,  and 
omitted  the  courtesies  of  the  palace  on  their  return. 
A  royal  murderer,  scowling  from  his  windows, 
watched  in  vain  for  his  Eastern  guests.  He  had 
miscalculated  their  shrewd  simplicity. 


Dreadful  rumors  of  more  dreadful  facts  ran  whis- 
pering at  this  time  about  Judea.  In  the  palace  at 
Jerusalem,  Rome  was  represented  by  a  monster. 
Cruelty  was  his  pastime,  and  murder  his  passion. 
One  of  his  worst  manias  was  a  senseless  jealousy 
of  any  possible  or  imaginary  claimant,  present  or 
future,  to  the  throne  which  he  disgraced.  Whoever 
came  in  his  way,  or  whoever  crossed  his  fancy,  was 
slain,  with  no  more  compunction  than  any  gentle- 
man of  that  age  felt  in  the  whipping  of  a  slave. 
Priests,  nobles,  the  Sanhedrin,  political  suspects,  the 
people,  his  own  family,  those  he  feared,  those  he 
loved,  and  those  he  hated,  fell  indiscriminately  be- 
fore his  deadly  will.  He  smote,  he  strangled,  he 
starved,  he  burned,  he  tortured.  His  morals  were 
past  speaking  of.  He  had  the  vices  of  his  times 
"  carried  up  "  by  the  Satanic  ingenuity  of  his  own 
abnormal  abominations.  In  consequence  of  them, 
he  was  dying  slowly  in  a  manner  of  which  modern 
delicacy  does  not  speak.  But  life  was  in  him  yet; 
and  all  there  was  left  of  it  was  expended  in  the  in- 
fliction of  torment.  His  name  rang  like  an  alarm- 
bell  through  a  wretched  land. 


36  '  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

In  the   homes  of  the   oppressed   people,  ghastly 
stories  circulated. 

It  was  said  that  something  had  befallen  the  High- 
priest,  a  young,  noble,  and  attractive  man,  brother- 
in-law  to  Herod.  "  Drowned  !  "  in  pretended  jest 
—  "drowned  before  the  king's  own  eyes,  and  by 
his  order."  The  tale  of  worse  than  this  stole  from 
caravan  to  home :  "  His  own  sons,  three  of  them, 
murdered."  And  still  a  worst !  "  His  wife,  Mari- 
amne,  beautiful,  a  Princess,  passionately  adored  ; 
the  only  being  whom  the  butcher  ever  loved, — 
Mariamne  strangled !  "  With  paling  lips  men  told 
each  other  about  the  great  golden  eagle  which  hung 
above  the  Temple  gate,  and  how  the  people,  insulted 
to  frenzy,  tore  the  hated  Roman  emblem  down 
one  desperate  night.  Hideous  things  were  said: 
for  the  rioters  were  students,  and  their  leaders 
learned  and  eloquent;  and  forty  of  them  roasted 
alive  for  their  escapade. 

Now,  in  Bethlehem,  Joseph  and  Mary  shuddered 
as  they  caressed  the  child  ;  for  there  had  come  to 
them  startling  news  in  a  strange  way.  The  fearful 
gossip  had  not  reached  the  village.  None  of  the 
neighbors  had  heard  it.  No  other  mother  fainted 
before  it.  No  father  barred  his  doors  in  mortal 
terror  of  the  hired  assassins  of  the  king. 

But  Mary  had  married  a  dreamer  ;  and  one  night 
Joseph,  standing  tall  and  solemn,  awaked  her  sud- 
denly. His  voice  fell  below  his  breath.  He  looked 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  Arise,"  he  said.     "  Take  the  child  !     Fly  !  " 

Without  question  or  argument,  for  that  was  her 


THE   MADONNA 


PRESAGE  37 

sweet  nature,  Mary  obeyed  the  vision  and  the  au- 
thority of  her  lord.  The  child,  of  whom  Joseph 
was  now  the  legal  protector,  was  clasped  to  her 
heart.  The  three  stole  out  into  the  night  —  the 
fugitives  of  a  mystical  order.  For  this  builder  was 
a  visionary  beyond  his  calling  or  his  kind.  Like 
his  lovely  wife,  he  was  more  than  usually  accessible 
to  delicate  agencies.  The  condition  may  not  have 
lasted  his  life  out,  but  it  served  its  uses  in  its  time 
with  significant  effect.  It  led  this  thoughtful 
family  as  the  break  of  a  wave  on  a  cliff  may  lead 
a  poet,  or  a  touch  of  the  sun  on  a  leaf  may  move 
an  artist,  or  the  hymn  of  the  winds  may  stir  a  de- 
votee. 

Scarcely  had  the  three  vanished  from  the  village 
when  Bethlehem  became  the  scene  of  one  of  the 
most  piteous  of  tragedies,  but  of  the  least  propor- 
tions in  the  life  of  the  monarch  who  ordained  it. 

What  was  the  butchery  of  a  few  babies  in  the 
catalogue  of  the  crimes  of  Herod?  —  he  who,  know- 
ing himself  to  be  about  to  die,  could  command  the 
slaughter  of  all  the  priests  and  nobles  whom  he 
could  entrap  in  the  Hippodrome,  in  order  that  his 
death  should  be  received  with  public  mourning 
instead  of  the  frenzy  of  delight  which  was  otherwise 
inevitable. 

There  were  but  a  score  of  little  corpses  in  Bethle- 
hem. Who  could  have  supposed  amid  the  shrieks 
of  that  bleeding  night,  that  the  insignificant  mas- 
sacre should  become  one  of  the  most  memorable  and 
familiar  in  human  history  ? 

Egypt,  at  all  times  the  natural  shelter  of  Pales- 


38  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

tinian  refugees,  could  be  reached  by  steady  traveling 
in  a  few  days'  journey  from  Bethlehem.  The  bound- 
ary line,  a  little  river  with  a  long  name,  secured 
the  protection  of  the  fugitives.  The  infant  Egyp- 
tian traveler,  clasped  to  his  mother's  heart,  across 
the  Rhinokolura  River,  slept  safely  while  the  first 
martyrs  to  his  name,  coevals  of  his  own  brief  age, 
went  to  their  fate.  Did  the  child  dream  ?  Who 
knows  ? 

The  expense  of  this  unexpected  journey  was  some- 
thing which  the  family  of  a  poor  mechanic  were 
ill  prepared  to  meet.  Now,  behold  the  supply  of 
gold  which  the  Eastern  star-gazers  had  poured  at 
the  baby's  feet,  hoarded  by  the  young  mother  with 
the  awe  of  a  poor  girl  who  had  never  handled  so 
much  wealth  in  all  her  humble  life  before !  Pro- 
tection against  the  poverty  and  discomfort  of  this 
sudden  uprooting  was  at  least  secured.  At  the  out- 
set of  his  struggling  life  a  breath  too  much  of  ex- 
posure, of  suffering,  would  have  killed  the  child. 
He  seems  to  have  been  sheltered  at  this  time  of  his 
utter  helplessness,  like  a  tiny,  trembling  flame,  by 
the  inclosing  motion  of  an  unseen  Hand.  The  pure, 
white  light  went  straight  upward  to  its  appointed 
end,  unquenched  by  wind  or  weather,  like  the  flames 
of  the  camp-fire  in  the  desert,  familiar  to  us  in  that 
most  impressive  of  the  pictures  that  have  portrayed 
the  Egyptian  journey,  wherein  Joseph,  flat  with 
fatigue,  keeps  watch  upon  the  sands  by  the  fire, 
while  Mary  sleeps  with  the  sacred  child  on  her 
breast  in  the  arms  of  the  great  Sphinx :  —  the 
mysteries  of  womanhood  and  of  infancy,  of  divinity 


PRESAGE  39 

and  of  humanity,  of  the  past  and  the  future,  of  soli- 
tude and  of  family,  of  sacrifice  and  of  love,  clasped 
together  in  silence  and  in  night. 

Joseph,  for  a  dreamer,  was  a  practical  and  able 
man,  and  fully  capable  of  managing  the  affairs  of 
the  extraordinary  family  of  which,  in  so  singular  a 
manner,  he  found  himself  the  head  and  protector. 
The  slow-traveling  news  of  the  day  reached  the 
carpenter  in  due,  though  dilatory,  season.  Herod, 
calling  wildly  on  the  spectre  of  his  beloved  and 
murdered  Mariamne,  had  gone  to  his  miserable  tomb. 
The  little  Bethlehem  babies  were  sleeping  in  their 
graves,  forgotten  by  all  but  their  parents.  Joseph 
brought  his  family  back  to  their  own  land,  where 
the  first  information  that  he  picked  up  told  him  that 
the  new  monarch  was  no  improvement  on  the  old 
one.  Therefore  he  abandoned  altogether  the  idea  of 
revisiting  Judea,  and  turned  his  face  by  way  of  the 
coast  towards  Galilee. 

Neither  he  nor  Mary  had  a  whole  heart  for  living 
in  Nazareth,  where  their  associations  were  not  en- 
tirely pleasant ;  but  with  the  limited  choice  which  is 
left  to  the  freest  of  us  in  the  decisions  of  life,  —  a 
choice  which  was  narrow  enough  for  two  plain  work- 
ing-people who  knew  little  of  the  world,  and  had  less 
wherewith  to  conquer  it,  they  struck  root  in  the  old 
familiar,  self-satisfied,  and  suspicious  village,  where 
they  had  lived  and  loved  ;  where  they  had  been  be- 
trothed and  wedded,  had  suffered,  and  wondered, 
and  prayed,  and  accepted  their  strange  and  sacred 
lot. 

Thus   Nazareth,   an   unpopular    mountain    town, 


40  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

became  the  home  of  the  family ;  and  the  Child  — 
known  from  that  day  to  this,  for  the  space  of  two 
thousand  years,  by  a  Jewish  epithet  of  contumely, 
as  the  Nazarene  —  bears  in  history  the  great  name 
of  Jesus  the  Christ 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   BOY 

THE  boy  of  Nazareth  lived  with  his  parents  in  a 
little,  plain  house,  such  as  one  must  see  everywhere 
to-day  in  Palestine.  It  was  white,  with  a  flat  earthen 
roof,  protected  by  a  low  parapet  prescribed  by  law ; 
it  had  one  door,  and  it  might  be,  no  windows ;  there 
were  vines  blending  the  rectangular  outlines  of  the 
dwelling ;  there  were  birds  and  flowers  dipping  and 
springing  on  the  roof  and  about  the  place. 

Inside  the  building,  one  room  accommodated  the 
family.  A  bench  ran  around  the  side  of  the  room  ; 
in  the  daytime  the  boy  neatly  rolled  upon  it  the  rug, 
or  bright  quilt  or  mat,  upon  which  he  slept  at  night. 
Meals  were  spread  upon  a  round  and  movable  table, 
which  was  pushed  in  and  out  of  its  place  as  needed. 
A  decorated  chest  stood  against  the  wall ;  in  it  were 
stored  the  valuables  of  the  family,  their  best  clothes, 
and  copies  of  the  sacred  writings  of  their  people.  Tall 
water-jars  flanked  the  door,  and  a  few  herbs  floated 
in  them  to  keep  the  water  cool.  There  was  in  this 
simple  household,  practically,  no  more  furniture. 
Housework  was  reduced  to  its  elements.  Everything 
was  scrupulously  neat.  The  Jews  were  always 
washing,  for  the  incessant  use  of  water  was  pre- 
scribed by  Levitical  law.  The  lad  bathed  before  he 


42  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

ate,  before  lie  prayed,  before  he  slept,  after  touching 
anything  which  was  ecclesiastically  unclean.  Moses 
had  a  genius  for  cleanliness,  and  in  this  respect  was 
the  most  peremptory  of  law-makers. 

Palestine  was  not  a  quiet  place  except  in  the  heat 
of  the  day.  In  the  morning  the  village  began  early 
to  echo  with  chatter,  pious  or  otherwise.  The  Jews, 
like  all  religious  polemicists,  were  great  talkers. 
The  first  conversation  which  the  little  Jesus  had 
heard  concerned  the  affairs  of  church  and  state, 
these  being  always  one.  One  of  the  earliest  words 
for  which  the  ear  of  the  child  had  sought  was  Yaveh, 
—  Jehovah.  He  had  listened,  ever  since  he  could 
remember,  to  the  neighbors  and  the  customers  dron- 
ing perpetual  talk  about  burnt-offerings  and  sin- 
offerings  ,*  Moses,  the  prophets,  David,  the  exile, 
Babylon,  Rabbinism,  unleavened  bread  ;  the  priests, 
the  Synagogue,  and  the  Law ;  the  Sabbath  lamp, 
feast-days,  fast-days ;  phylacteries,  paschal  lambs, 
Passovers,  —  an  endless  and  pompous  iteration.  He 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  baby  before  he  knew  what 
the  parchment  meant  attached  to  the  door-post,  and 
he  watched  the  visitors  who,  on  coming  in  or  going 
out,  reverently  touched  the  Name  of  the  Most  High, 
and  then  kissed  the  fingers  that  had  approached 
the  holy  inscription. 

When  he  was  five,  the  little  boy  was  put  to  the 
study  of  the  Law;  for  all  well-brought-up  Jewish 
boys  were  mimic  theological  students.  We  have 
our  occasional  tiny  prig  who  learns  the  Greek  alpha- 
bet at  three,  and  is  a  Hebrew  scholar  at  seven,  but 
to  a  Jewish  man-child  a  certain  amount  of  pious 


THE  BOY  43 

precocity  was  a  matter  of  course.  He  began  to  be 
learned  at  five.  At  thirteen  he  was  a  man,  and  able 
to  enter  upon  full  ecclesiastical  privileges.  Marriage 
was  expected  at  eighteen,  and  was  not  unknown  even 
earlier. 

Schools  were  abundant  everywhere  on  Jewish 
soil,  and  between  the  ages  of  five  and  thirteen  Jesus 
had  been  compelled  by  law  to  study  with  his  mates. 
The  little  fellows  applied  themselves  to  the  dreary! 
topic  of  Leviticus,  then  to  other  portions  of  the  Pen- 
tateuch and  to  the  Prophets.  The  lad  had  learned 
the  schedule  of  holy  times,  —  all  about  the  feasts  of 
Purim,  of  the  New  Year,  of  the  Tabernacle,  and  the 
Fast  of  Atonement.  Then  came  the  Commandments 
and  the  Law,  an  interminable  and  devious  proces- 
sion of  "Thou  shalts"  and  "Shalt  nots."  But  it 
was  at  least  sure  that  he  had  committed  to  memory  s 
much  of  the  fine  literature  of  his  people. 

Now  it  is  impossible  to  overestimate  the  impor- 
tance of  this  fact  in  the  environment  of  the  child,  — 
that  he  was  a  Galilean.  The  Jews  had  the  vices  of 
their  virtues,  like  other  races,  and  their  ecclesiastical 
aristocracy  was  one  of  the  most  obstinate. 

Judea  was  the  seat  of  the  capital,  of  the  Temple, 
of  scholarship,  of  bigotry;  of  social,  political,  and 
religious  position  and  importance  ;  of  asceticism,  of 
experts  in  the  Law ;  of  Rabbinism,  or  the  rigid  and 
conservative  school  of  theology,  of  every  learned, 
hard,  haughty  assumption  and  assertion.  Galilee 
was  rustic,  liberal,  worldly,  more  or  less  heretical, 
crowded  with  traveling  and  even  hospitable  to  set- 
tling Gentiles,  —  unconscious  and  happy,  full  of 


44  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

lovely  scenery  and  lovely  women  and  children,  not 
troubled  about  too  many  things  in  theological  dis- 
pute, agricultural  and  cheerful,  fond  of  planting 
fruits  and  flowers.  There  was  a  proverb  which  told 
how  it  was  easier  to  raise  ten  olive  orchards  in 
Galilee  than  one  child  in  Judea.  It  was  the  fashion 
in  the  metropolis  and  suburbs  to  speak  slightingly  of 
Galilee  ;  "  Galilean  —  fool !  "  was  a  common  fling. 
The  Galilean  village  of  Nazareth  was  the  special 
object  of  general  contempt;  it  was  difficult  to  say 
precisely  why.  Probably  the  village  was  too  liberal 
in  theology  to  be  tolerated  by  the  more  ecclesiastical 
Judea.  Possibly  it  was  too  hospitable  to  the  heathen 
guests  whose  diverse  routes  met  in  or  around  the 
town. 

The  Nazarenes  were  quick-tempered,  being  ardent, 
generous,  and  impulsive.  They  were  sometimes 
taunted  as  uncultivated,  a  common  and  untrust- 
worthy adjective  in  all  ages  tossed  from  the  city  at 
the  country.  It  was  the  fact  that  the  Nazarenes, 
indeed  that  most  Galileans,  admitted  foreign  words 
into  their  vocabulary,  and  spoke  with  a  distinct 
brogue  of  their  own.  A  learned  lady  once  contemp- 
tuously addressed  a  distinguished  Galilean  scholar 
because  he  had  used  two  unnecessary  words  in  ask- 
ing her  the  way  to  a  distant  town.  The  Nazarenes 
were  considered  as  uncouth,  out  of  the  mode,  out  of 
society.  Jerusalem  regarded  Nazareth  much  as  New 
York  regards  the  winter  population  of  a  Catskill 
hamlet,  or  as  Boston  views  the  affairs  of  a  remote 
parish  on  the  northern  Vermont  line. 

But  metropolitan  scorn  is  sometimes  only  the  syn- 


THE  BOY  45 

onym  for  metropolitan  ignorance.  Like  some  other 
country  villages,  Nazareth  was  really  less  provincial 
in  certain  respects  than  the  urban  mind  could  under- 
stand. This  was  largely  owing  to  the  single  circum- 
stance that  she  had  access  to  the  caravan  routes.  One 
ran  through  Nazareth  to  Samaria,  Jerusalem,  and  the 
south.  Damascus  travelers,  by  one  of  two  routes, 
came  behind  or  below  Nazareth  at  no  great  distance  ; 
and,  in  fact,  the  village  was  a  crossing-place  of  many 
nationalities.  Greeks,  Romans,  Arabs,  Syrians,  and 
Phoenicians  poured  through  the  region  ;  brought  the 
culture,  such  as  it  was,  of  the  heathen  world,  and 
perhaps  its  morals  also. 

At  all  events,  they  brought  the  current  of  the 
stream  of  life.  They  brought  movement,  change, 
knowledge,  breadth  of  thought,  sparkle  of  feeling. 
Nazareth  was  not  a  stupid  place.  This  little  moun- 
tain village,  shut  in  like  a  flower  in  a  walled  gar- 
den, was  alert  and  vivacious.  It  had  a  variety  of 
languages.  Her  people  had  intellect ;  they  had  ima- 
gination, and  they  had  some  knowledge  of  the  world. 

The  Jews  were  devoted  to  their  religious  festivals, 
—  those  pleasing  occasions  in  which  it  is  easy  for 
people  of  any  faith  to  unite  the  sense  of  being  as 
devout  as  possible  with  that  of  having  a  very  good 
time.  Of  these  festivals  the  Passover  was  the  most 
brilliant,  exciting,  or  solemn  of  the  year,  according 
to  the  temperament  of  the  worshipers. 

Egypt  and  Israel  both  remembered  yet  the  story 
of  that  black  night  when  the  first-born  child  in 
every  unsanctified  household  in  the  land  was  smitten 
by  death,  and  when  the  trembling  slaves  marked 


46  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

their  door-sills  with  sacrificial  blood,  that  the  de- 
stroyer might  pass  them  by,  as  we  are  told  he  did. 

This  thrilling,  national  event  was  the  centre  of 
commemoration.  Around  it  many  penitential  vows 
and  prayers  and  mysteries  clung.  Passover  was  the 
annual  sacrament  of  the  people.  No  devout  Jew 
would  fail  to  visit  Jerusalem  at  Passover  time  if  he 
could  help  it. 

The  boy  Jesus  was  now  twelve  years  old,  that  is, 
coming  into  his  thirteenth  year ;  after  this  time  he 
would  ecclesiastically  be  of  age  ;  would  be  permitted 
to  sit  with  his  male  relatives  and  friends  at  the 
Passover  supper,  and  allowed  to  take  his  part  in 
the  public  services  of  the  synagogue. 

His  mother  and  Joseph  were  about  going  up  to 
Jerusalem  for  the  national  feast.  The  child  had 
been  promised  that  he  should  go  with  them.  It  was 
his  first  visit  to  the  capital. 

No,  not  his  first.  Mary  his  mother  remembered 
that  other  when,  going  over  from  Bethlehem,  she 
carried  the  baby  before  the  ecclesiastical  authorities 
in  the  Temple  as  the  Jewish  law  required,  and  an 
old  priest  and  a  prophetess  created  some  excitement 
by  openly  worshiping  the  wonderful  child.  What 
startling  thoughts  had  stirred  the  heart  of  the  young 
mother  at  this  first  public  recognition  that  hers  was 
not  like  other  women's  children,  —  who  shall  say  ? 
She  had  never  expressed  them,  but  silently  offered  the 
two  doves,  the  smallest  sacrifice  made  by  the  poorest 
of  women  ;  she,  a  dove  herself,  as  mild,  as  patient,  as 
the  helpless  winged  things  with  whose  lives  the  red 
altars  of  that  age  and  that  faith  smoked  steadily. 


THE   BOY  47 

As  silently  the  child  lay  against  her  heart.  They 
passed  in  and  out  of  the  Temple  like  two  mute  spir- 
its hovering  apart  from  the  ecclesiastical  ceremonies 
to  which  they  were  gently  subject. 

Now,  the  country  lad,  growing  tall  and  sturdy,  a 
strong  walker,  like  other  Eastern  boys,  came  down 
the  rough  highway  through  the  mountain  passes  that 
led  from  Nazareth  to  the  plain  of  Jezreel.  There 
is  something  delightful  about  the  intense,  quiet 
excitement  of  a  thoughtful  boy  for  the  first  time 
aduiitted  to  any  knowledge  of  the  world.  Nothing 
else  even  in  the  charm  of  youth  is  quite  like  it. 

It  needs  no  history  to  tell  us  that  this  was  a  lovely 
boy.  The  omitted  chapters  in  his  young  years  speak 
for  themselves.  No  man  develops  as  he  did  from  a 
rude  or  from  a  thoughtless  boyhood.  It  must  be  a 
delicate  root  that  throws  out  so  fair  a  flower.  The 
lad  was  a  well-ordered  child,  giving  no  anxiety  to 
parents ;  obedient  to  family  rule,  amenable,  docile, 
sweet.  But  he  was  a  manly  boy,  and  he  was  a  little 
student.  He  obeyed  his  mother,  but  he  studied  the 
Law.  Now  the  Law  taught  him  that  a  man  has 
more  privileges  than  a  woman,  such  as  even  mothers 
do  not  share.  When  he  went  up  to  the  capital  on 
that  first  journey  he  remembered  this. 

April  was  Passover  month,  and  Palestine  was  at 
her  blossom.  The  boy's  first  sight  of  the  world  was 
a  dream  of  delight.  He  descended  the  rugged  path, 
past  the  rich  Nazareth  gardens,  down  the  mountain 
sides,  through  the  great  plain,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
color,  perfume,  sound,  and  scene.  Pomegranate  and 
orange,  olive,  fig,  and  grape  and  grain  cast  tints 


48  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

and  scents  upon  the  soft,  hot  air  ;  the  gay  and  abun- 
dant birds  of  Palestine  darted  like  messengers  of  an 
unknown  life  about  the  pilgrims  ;  the  pious  chatter 
of  the  travelers  had  a  joyous  tone ;  a  subdued  and 
happy  excitement  pervaded  the  company  ;  the  fa- 
miliar outlines  of  home  scenery  disappeared  ;  the 
caravan  route  became  crowded  with  people  ;  at  night 
the  tent  was  struck  in  a  strange  place  ;  every  man's 
face  turned  towards  the  city  when  he  prayed,  —  the 
sacred  city  which  the  young  Jesus  had  never  seen, 
of  which  he  had  dreamed  as  an  imaginative  child 
dreams  of  the  most  wonderful  thing  known  to  the 
experience  of  the  world  in  which  he  has  been  reared. 
The  boy  looked  up  at  the  blazing  Oriental  stars  with 
thoughts  that  he  shared  with  no  one  —  thoughts 
which  he  could  but  half  understand  himself. 

On  the  fourth  day  the  pilgrimage  drew  towards 
its  end.  The  massive  city  walls  came  in  sight ;  the 
topmost  outlines  of  the  Temple  rose  solemnly,— 
gleaming  gold  and  flashing  white  marble.  The 
crowd  thickened.  Shouts  rent  the  air :  Jerusalem  ! 
Jerusalem !  As  the  throng  climbed  the  sacred  hills, 
they  sang  the  famous  Songs  of  Ascent  written  by 
David  their  king.  A  trained  flute-player  led  the 
exultant  music. 

The  lad  bowed  his  young  head.  This  was  his  first 
entry  into  Jerusalem.  The  voices  of  his  mother  and 
father  seemed  to  him  a  good  way  off.  The  talk  of  his 
relatives  and  friends  sounded  indistinct.  He  did  not 
shout.  He  could  not  explain  how  he  felt.  He  might 
not  sing.  He  could  not  speak. 

All  through  the  days  and  nights  of  the  great  fos- 


THE   BOY  49 

tival  his  subdued  excitement  increased,  unnoticed, 
or,  if  noticed,  not  understood  by  his  family.  He 
observed  everything  acutely  ;  he^  received  a  sunburst 
of  impressions  ;  he  took  on,  like  a  sensitive  plate, 
the  finest  lines  and  shades  and  lights  of  the  stirring 
and  solemn  scenes  to  which  he  was  for  the  first  time 
admitted ;  his  mind  and  heart  were  full  to  throbbing. 

The  panorama  of  this  great  and  sacred  pageant 
aroused  in  him  a  deep  and  naive  enthusiasm.  In 
all  ages  and  all  faiths,  the  coldest  scoffer  finds  it  hard 
not  to  respect  a  sincere  and  devout  boy. 

Passover  lasted  a  week,  but  attendance  was  obliga- 
tory only  for  the  first  two  days.  During  that  time 
every  household  had  baked  and  eaten  its  unleavened 
bread,  had  killed  and  offered  its  sacrificial  lamb. 
Two  hundred  and  fifty-six  thousand  of  these  poor 
creatures  were  slaughtered  in  the  holy  week,  —  a 
piteous  sacrament !  The  court  of  the  Temple  reeked 
in  blood.  The  hands  of  the  priests  dripped.  The 
great  altar  ran.  But  upon  this  dark  view  of  their 
consecrated  anniversary,  no  Hebrew  mind  of  that 
day  dwelt.  Animal  life  had  no  value  in  a  time  when 
human  life  had  little  enough.  What  was  a  lamb  ? 
Innocence  born  to  suffer  for  guilt,  the  symbol  of 
purity,  of  pain,  and  of  forgiveness.  The  boy  of 
Nazareth,  sensitive  above  his  neighbors,  thought 
about  the  lambs.  It  was  like  him  to  pity  them  ;  to 
remember  the  signs  of  their  suffering,  to  wonder  at 
it,  to  count  its  cost. 

During  these  two  days  the  Passover  supper  had 
been  eaten ;  whether  or  not  the  precise  age  of  Jesus 
had  admitted  him  to  a  share  in  this  impressive  cere- 


50  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

mony,  in  either  case  its  effect  upon  him  was  intense. 
His  solemn  emotion  waxed  with  every  hour.  The 
grandeur  of  Jerusalem,  then  a  little  city,  but  im- 
mense to  the  imagination  of  every  Jew ;  the  splen- 
dors of  the  truly  magnificent  Temple  ;  the  swelling 
of  the  vast  numbers  of  pilgrims  through  the  streets 
and  up  the  terraces ;  the  magnetism  of  his  first  ex- 
perience with  crowds  ;  the  religious  nature  of  every 
sight,  sound,  thought,  feeling  which  appealed  to 
him,  —  these  accumulated  like  a  mighty  wave  in 
which  he  was  swept.  He  strolled  from  his  mother's 
side,  his  father's  protection.  Lost  in  wonder  and  in 
admiration,  stirred  with  a  deepening  unrest,  and 
overcome  with  a  kind  of  awe  for  which  he  had  no 
name,  he  wandered  about  the  city  and  through  the 
Temple.  Nazareth,  the  carpenter's  shop,  the  coun- 
try synagogue,  the  dull,  daily  lesson,  the  dry,  daily 
task,  home,  mother,  father,  were  forgotten.  Nothing 
familiar  kept  him  company.  The  boy  walked  about 
in  a  grave,  bright  dream. 

On  the  third  day  of  the  great  feast  it  was  quite 
lawful  to  return  home,  and  many  families  availed 
themselves  of  this  permission. 

Two  millions  of  people  sometimes  came  up  to 
these  festivals  ;  the  city  brimmed  over ;  the  press, 
the  discomfort,  were  considerable.  It  was  not  law- 
ful to  let  lodgings  within  the  city  gates,  and  even 
Oriental  hospitality  was  heavily  taxed  among  the 
residents.  The  immense  throng  began  to  break  here 
and  there. 

Joseph  and  Mary,  gathering  themselves  to  their 
little  group  of  friends  and  neighbors,  started  for 
home. 


THE  BOY  51 

The  boy  was  not  by  their  side  at  the  time  ;  but  ^ 
when    they    inquired   about  him,  some    one   of   the  \ 
people,  who    answer  any  question  anyhow,  replied    1  \/ 
that  he  was  with  So-and-so,  —  a  relative  or  a  neigh- 
bor, —  and  no  further  concern  at  the  time  was  felt 
about  him.     The  company  filed  out  of  the  city  and 
into  the  caravan  route,  reaching  Beroth,  where  they 
spent  the  first  night. 

With  darkness  the  mother  began  to -worry.  The 
child  had  not  appeared.  She  and  Joseph  now  in- 
stituted a  thorough  hunt  for  him.  The  whole  com- 
pany was  searched.  Neighbors,  friends,  strangers, 
Jews,  Gentiles,  all  the  accessible  travelers,  were 
questioned.  The  boy  was  not  to  be  found. 

Broken  with  anxiety,  Mary  and  Joseph  turned 
about  the  next  day,  and  made  all  possible  haste  to 
get  back  into  Jerusalem. 

With  all  the  appliances  of  our  civilization  to  help 
us,  a  straying  child  is  always  one  of  the  uttermost 
catastrophes.  Steam,  telegraph,  telephone,  police, 
detective,  the  press,  shorten  or  lessen  an  agony 
which  is  still,  at  its  shortest  or  least,  unbearable ; 
and  Mary  had  none  of  these  assuagements.  She 
was  spent  with  terror  and  fatigue,  when,  at  the  end 
of  the  interminable  hours  by  which  she  had  plod- 
ded back  to  the  capital,  she  and  Joseph  piteously 
tramped  the  city  over,  seeking  for  the  boy.  For 
three  days  not  a  trace  of  him  could  be  found.  The 
anguish  of  Mary  in  those  three  days  and  nights ! 
How  many  millions  of  mothers  since  that  Passover, 
reading  this  chapter  in  her  story,  have  in  their  very 
hearts  blamed  her  more  or  less  !  How  bitterly  did 


52  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

she  blame  herself !  A  little  more  anxiety  a  little 
sooner,  a  little  less  sensitiveness  to  being  called  a 
worrier  by  husband  or  friends,  a  little  less  "  easi- 
ness "  or  trusting  to  chance  that  the  boy  was  safe, 
and  this  terrible  thing  had  never  happened.  She 
thought  of  the  mystery  under  which  the  child  was 
born,  of  his  unknown  future,  of  her  own  tremen- 
dous responsibility  for  it  and  for  him. 

It  was  no  common  child  whom  she  had  lost.  If  it 
had  been  Jonas,  or  John,  or  Enoch,  yonder  there  in 
Nazareth,  or  even  James  or  Andrew  —  but  Jesus  ! 

White  with  anguish,  Mary  tottered  by  her  hus- 
band's side.  They  searched  the  Temple  for  who 
knows  how  many  times.  How  enormous  the  build- 
ing !  How  endless  the  courts !  How  confusing  the 
gates  !  Oh,  the  wearisome  glitter  of  gold,  of  gems, 
of  marble,  of  steps,  of  platforms,  —  the  tiresome 
crowds  of  dazzling  costumes,  the  dreary  chatter,  the 
sickening  scent  of  the  butchered  lambs,  the  red- 
handed  priests  ! 

The  Temple  rose,  terrace  by  terrace,  haughty  and 
splendid.  The  hot  sky  was  clear.  Some  of  the 
rabbis  were  holding,  as  was  their  wont  at  these  festi- 
vals, one  of  their  interminable  discussions,  arguing 
fine  points  of  the  Law.  In  one  of  the  open  porticos 
of  the  Temple  a  crowd  had  thickened  significantly. 
Something  of  unusual  interest  was  plainly  happen- 
ing there.  Joseph  and  Mary  hurried  to  the  court, 
pushed  their  way  through  the  crowd.  The  people 
were  unusually  still.  A  young,  sweet,  treble  voice 
was  speaking  :  it  was  the  boy's  ! 

There  in  the  covered  cloister,  in  his  little  white 


THE   BOY  53 

talitli,  with  his  head  bare,  the  child  stood,  quite 
absorbed.  The  gorgeous  Temple  towered  behind 
him.  Gray  doctors  of  the  Law  sat  about  him.  Half 
amused,  half  respectful,  surprise  rested  upon  their 
venerable  faces.  The  rabbis  of  Jerusalem  were  en- 
gaged in  open  discussion  with  the  country  lad  ;  the 
scholars  of  the  Temple  were  talking  theology  with  a 
Nazarene  child.  An  audience  of  considerable  size 
hung  upon  this  remarkable  debate. 

When  had  it  been  known  in  Jewry  that  a  child 
could  argue  with  the  rabbis  ?  And  what  an  argu- 
ment !  His  questions  were  as  astonishing  as  his  an- 
swers. He  talked  like  a  man  and  a  scholar.  The 
expert  controversialists  by  whom  he  was  surrounded 
were  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  pace  with  him.  Such 
intellectual  force  and  moral  subtlety  would  have 
made  the  reputation  of  any  gray  scribe  or  rabbi  in 
the  land.  These  practiced  polemicists  regarded  the 
twelve-year-old  boy  with  perplexity  and  respect. 
The  crowd  became  denser  around  the  group.  It 
grew  silent.  Only  the  young  voice  was  heard  ;  — 
it  rang  on  uninterrupted  ;  it  took  on  uiichildlike, 
priestly  tones. 

A  low  cry  broke  in  upon  the  little  preacher's  ex- 
hortation :  but  the  child,  absorbed  in  his  theme,  did 
not  seem  to  hear  it.  Then  the  moving  of  heads  and 
changes  of  expression  in  his  audience  distracted 
him,  and  turning,  he  saw  his  mother's  face. 

At  this  point  Mary  restrained  herself,  and, 
shrinking  back  in  the  crowd,  awaited  the  boy's  will. 
He  finished  his  little  discourse  with  dignity,  and 
stepped  down  from  the  platform  on  which  he  stood. 


54  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

The  doctors  of  the  Law  looked  after  the  lad  so- 
berly ;  the  crowd  murmured  about  him  without 
laughter  ;  he  passed  away  from  and  through  them 
all,  and  sought  his  parents'  side. 

Then  the  mother's  distress  broke  out  in  natural, 
motherly  passion  of  reproach  : 

"  My  son  !  Why  hast  thou  left  us  so  ?  Why 
hast  thou  dealt  with  us  in  this  manner  ?  Thy  father 
and  I  have  sought  thee  for  these  three  days !  We 
have  sorrowed  for  thee  !  What  didst  thou  mean  ? 
What  hast  thou  done  ?  " 

She  caught  him  to  her,  sobbing  as  she  did  so. 

Joseph  did  not  join  in  her  reproofs ;  he  stood 
silently  by.  Both  parents  were  as  much  puzzled  as 
they  were  troubled.  Ought  they  to  blame  the  lad  ? 
Ought  they  not  to  blame  him  ? 

Mary  was  not  a  scolding  mother,  and  her  gentle 
reproaches  died  away  before  the  boy's  quiet  and 
abstracted  mien.  He  looked  at  her  with  perfect 
self-possession.  Nay,  truly,  the  right  of  reproach 
seemed,  strangely,  to  rest  with  him.  He  did  not 
speak  until  he  chose,  then : 

"  How  is  it,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  ye  sought 
me?" 

Mary  hastened  to  explain,  to  expostulate  :  but  he 
regarded  her  steadily.  Before  his  unboylike  eyes 
her  own  dimmed  with  the  pang  that  mothers  know 
when  they  see  the  first  signs  of  manly  will  and  in- 
dividualism in  a  growing  son. 

"  Knew  ye  not,"  asked  the  boy,  "  that  I  must  be 
in  my  Father's  house  ?  I  must  be,"  he  said  peremp- 
torily, "  about  my  Father's  things." 


THE   BOY  55 

His  manner  was  as  solemn,  as  mysterious,  as  his 
words.  Mary  and  Joseph  did  not  answer  him. 
They  did  not  know  how.  His  look  was  high  and 
unfamiliar.  He  glanced  back  at  the  rabbis,  upward 
at  the  splendid  background  of  the  Temple,  then 
downward  on  the  tiles.  Whatever  his  thoughts,  he 
did  not  try  to  share  them  with  any  person.  With 
the  sigh  of  one  awaking  from  a  thrilling  dream  to 
a  dull  reality,  he  passed  down  the  terraces  and  out 
from  the  Temple  courts.  His  mother's  hand  held 
his  anxiously.  He  suffered  this,  without  childish 
fret  or  petulance.  There  seemed  to  be  the  decision 
of  a  man  in  the  heart  of  a  boy.  It  was  as  if  he 
said  to  himself : 

"  I  will  trouble  her  no  more.  My  time  is  not 
come.  After  all,  I  am  but  a  lad !  I  will  defer  to 
my  parents  and  be  subject  to  them." 

And  this  without  protest  or  rebellion  he  did  and 
was. 

He  went  back  with  them  to  Nazareth  like  any 
other  child  ;  and  there,  like  any  other  child,  he 
lived  and  'grew,  and  did  the  things  that  he  was 
told,  and  talked  no  more  with  the  rabbis,  and  was 
not  restless  or  fretful  to  go  back  to  Jerusalem  and 
have  an  audience  in  the  Temple  portico. 

We  have  been  told  that  he  waxed  strong  in  body 
and  in  spirit,  and  found  favor  with  God  and  men. 
Beyond  these  quaint  and  beautiful  words  we  know  \  \/ 
nothing  more  about  the  young  life  of  Jesus  Christ, 
until  he  was  a  man,  and  a  man  of  thirty  years. 

Yet  this  period  is,  of  all  the  unknown  spaces  on 
the  map  of  his  life,  the  easiest  for  the  loving  im- 
agination to  follow, 


56  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

A  boy  who  could  deliberately  abandon,  after  such 
a  glimpse  as  he  had  received  of  it,  the  enticement 
of  ecclesiastical  eminence  and  active,  public  religious 
service,  and  take  up  again,  uiirebellious  and  uncom- 
plaining, the  duties  of  childhood,  was  not,  from  any 
point  of  view,  an  ordinary  youth. 

The  little  Christians  of  a  later  day  who  are  forced 
,  by  the  spirit  of  the  times  into  the  front  of  church 
activities,  and  premature  consequence,  would  not 
have  found  the  subjection  and  seclusion  of  Nazareth 
welcome.  We  may  doubt  if  the  young  Jesus  liked 
it  any  better.  But  he  began  life  in  a  rare  way, 
—  by  doing  the  unwelcome  cordially.  Think  as 
we  may  about  his  resemblance  to  other  children  at 
this  time,  his  lack  of  resemblance  to  them  was  early 
in  evidence.  A  certain  spiritual  precocity  showed 
itself  beyond  all  question ;  it  had  a  finely  dual 
nature.  He  could  do,  but  he  could  refrain  ;  he  could 
preach,  but  he  could  practice.  He  could  lead  his 
elders,  but  he  could  obey  them. 

The  interest  of  centuries  has  centred  around  the 
Temple  scene.  But  there  was  more  individuality, 
more  poetry,  more  beauty,  more  religion  in  his 
journey  home  with  Mary's  now  too  anxious  hand  on 
his,  or  her  nervous  fingers  touching  always  at  his 
talith ;  in  his  patience  with  a  mother's  mournful, 
watchful  eyes  atoning  for  a  temporary  neglect  by  a 
permanent  oversight ;  in  his  deference  to  a  father's 
orders,  never  before  so  frequent  or  so  minute  ;  in 
his  reserve  when  chattering  neighbors  pried  him 
with  questions  about  his  truancy  from  the  caravan  ; 
in  his  silence  at  the  Nazareth  synagogue  where  the 


THE   BOY  57 

country  rabbis  droned.  He  listened  meekly.  He 
did  not  debate  or  defy  or  deny.  A  lad,  he  took  his 
place  among  the  lads,  and  awaited  that  majority  of 
character  which  lagged  so  far  behind  the  majority  of 
law.  How  fair  the  vision  of  that  one  glowing  hour 
in  the  Temple!  Memory  ran  a  gentle  license  in  it. 

Thrilling  and  mysterious  experience  !  What  had 
he  done?  What  should  he  do?  Obey,  renounce, 
retreat,  observe,  conform,  delay,  —  so  far  clearly. 
But  what  more  ?  What  did  it  mean,  —  that  flash 
of  power,  that  jet  of  light  upon  the  mistiness  of  a 
young  and  growing  soul  ?  What  should  he  think  ? 
How  act  ?  How  aspire,  or  how  defer  ?  What  VMS  he  ? 

A  boy  ;  the  son  of  Joseph  and  Mary ;  a  country 
lad,  shut  into  a  mountain  village  ;  put  to  a  trade ; 
about  to  become  a  carpenter. 

A  great  writer  has  said  that  he  who  has  seen  the  \ 
suffering  of  men  and  of  women  has  seen  nothing  ; 
he  must  see  the  suffering  of  children.  It  may  be  said 
that  the  solitude  of  men  and  women  is  society  be- 
side the  solitude  of  children,  —  immature,  unreason- 
ing, perplexed  little  beings,  terrified  at  the  opening 
mystery  of  life.  The  solitude  of  a  child  -  genius 
stands  quite  by  itself,  "a  garden  walled."  Who, 
never  having  trodden  its  silent  and  desolate  short 
pathways,  among  its  timid  buds  and  premature 
thorns,  can  presume  to  comprehend  that  limited 
but  passionate  mental  topography? 

All  children  of  genius  suffer,  and  most  of  them 
acutely.  The  childhood  of  Christ  was  no  exception 
to  this  law.  The  subjection  of  crude  power,  scarcely 
conscious  of  its  own  existence,  to  inferior  but  mature 


58  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

minds ;  the  dullness,  coldness,  criticism,  discourage- 
ment, or  positive  rebuke  of  parents  who  are  cast  in  a 
coarser  or  a  different  mould  from  their  own  offspring  ; 
the  push  and  jar  of  the  wills  of  other  children  equal 
in  rank  to  the  more  gifted  little  one  for  whose  pecu- 
liarities they  have  no  respect  (and  they  are  seldom 
taught  it),  such  are  the  inevitable  trials  which  mark 
the  lot  of  an  unusual  child. 

The  child  Jesus  was  a  religious  genius,  —  of  all 
types  of  superiority  the  most  refined,  most  sensitive, 
most  conscientious,  and  therefore  least  easily  satis- 
fied with  itself,  and  least  likely  to  recognize  the  real 
mistakes  of  its  elders.  These,  in  his  case,  were  less 
than  they  might  have  been.  Whatever  her  ideas  of 
the  nature  or  the  future  of  her  mystical  son,  Mary 
had  a  certain  amount  of  faith  in  both.  She  was 
thoughtful,  observant,  docile  to  "  the  signs "  by 
which  it  was  natural  for  a  Jewish  mind  to  be  gov- 
erned in  perplexing  matters ;  herself  a  devotee,  and 
always  an  essentially  womanly  woman,  —  hence  a 
lovable  mother.  She  was  sympathetic,  perceptive, 
alert,  not  urgent  with  her  own  will  against  the  de- 
veloping will  of  her  boy ;  yet  not  without  opinions, 
or  dignity  in  expressing  them. 

Joseph,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  man  of  great 
good  sense.  While  the  inevitable  discipline  of  the 
family  fell  upon  his  shoulders,  it  was  not  executed 
with  severity.  He  recognized  to  a  certain  extent 
that  he  had  the  rearing  of  a  remarkable  boy.  In 
so  far  as  he  was  prepared  for  the  surprising  in  the 
history  of  the  lad,  Joseph  perceived  that  the  educa- 
tion of  the  child  could  not  be  a  thoughtless  affair. 


THE  BOY  59 

His  own  mind  worked  with  slow  but  honorable  con- 
scientiousness about  this  problem.  Too  much  free- 
dom or  too  little,  more  restraint  or  less,  and  the  boy 
(he  reasoned)  might  be  spoiled  either  way.  The 
father  accepted  the  responsibility  thus  singularly  laid 
upon  him  in  no  inferior  manner.  Too  many  a  Jew- 
ish home,  in  which  the  childhood  of  Christ  might 
have  been  passed,  would  have  cruelly  intensified  the 
difficulties  of  his  youth. 

Even  as  it  was,  and  taken  at  their  best,  these 
were  neither  few  nor  light.  The  boy  bent  himself 
to  his  parents'  wishes  without  protest;  but  he  had 
his  own  thoughts  and  views  of  things.  These  he 
neither  obtruded  nor  avoided.  His  wide  eyes,  with 
distance  in  them,  watched  the  rabbis  in  the  country 
synagogue,  and  the  neighbors  at  their  theological 
gossip.  Early  he  learned  that  it  was  unnecessary 
to  say  what  one  was  thinking. 

He  went  into  the  shop  with  Joseph  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Every  respectable  Jew  was  taught  a  trade. 
This  was  the  honorable  thing.  Jesus  stood  at  the 
bench  and  watched  the  shavings  curl  from  the  planes, 
—  strong  oak,  or  shining  pine,  yellow  like  the  sun 
in  the  heavens  ;  or  cedar,  red  as  flesh  and  blood  ;  or 
olive,  rich  as  the  fibre  of  life,  —  his  delicate  imagina- 
tion fastening  itself  on  fancies  or  on  visions  as  he 
worked. 

Who  shall  say  what  these  were  ?  whither  they 
tended  ?  what  they  portended  ?  The  youth  himself 
knew  not  whence  they  came.  Strange  glimpses  of 
that  which  he  might  not  reach  and  did  not  under- 
stand broke  through  the  fog  of  his  daily  task,  — 


60  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

brightness,  burning  down.  What  was  life  ?  To  be 
a  builder  like  his  father  ;  to  do  exact  work  honora- 
bly ;  to  receive  a  coin  for  drilling  a  hole  straight  or 
setting  a  joist  true ;  to  go  to  the  synagogue ;  to  fast 
and  bathe  and  pray,  and  feast  and  fast  again  ;  to 
commit  an  interminable  Law  to  a  wincing  memory 
and  a  troubled  belief ;  to  be  a  good  son,  a  good  car- 
penter, and  a  good  Jew.  Yet  what  was  life  ? 

Struggling  with  itself,  with  his  surroundings,  with 
his  lot,  the  soul  of  the  child  of  genius  and  the  child 
of  God  felt  about  for  its  own  significance. 

Solitude  was  natural  to  such  youth  as  his.  There 
was  deep  opportunity  for  it  in  the  beautiful  groves 
of  oak  which  gathered  about  Nazareth.  His  strong, 
young  feet  sought  them  often  and  oftener ;  to  be 
alone  was  his  luxury,  as  it  is  that  of  all  thoughtful 
and  superior  beings. 

Years  of  boyish  obedience  to  parents  who  were 
wise  enough  not  to  insist  that  they  understood  him, 
years  of  precise  mechanical  labor  at  a  decent  trade, 
years  of  good  scholarship  in  the  ecclesiastical 
schools,  passed  dreamily  over  his  mind  and  heart. 
His  character  was  formed  by  two  controlling  and 
conflicting  forces,  —  law  and  independence. 

He  was  expected  to  be  like  other  young  men ; 
conscientiously  he  tried  to  be  so.  Inwardly,  like  all 
gifted  and  growing  beings,  he  felt  that  he  was  not. 
Yet  how  urge  a  difference  which  no  one  else  seemed 
to  recognize?  His  personal  modesty  shrank  from 
this  insistence.  At  times,  to  accept  the  estimate 
formed  of  him  by  his  neighbors  seemed  the  only 
reasonable  thing  to  do. 


THE  BOY  61 

He  trembled  away  from  over-valuing  himself. 
He  tried  to  think  he  was  like  Aaron,  or  like  Solo- 
mon, yonder  across  the  village  street.  He  blamed 
himself  for  a  kind  of  undue  self  -  appreciation. 
Gusts  and  gales  against  which  no  storm-signal  gave 
warning  swept  over  him.  They  came  from  unex- 
pected directions.  The  points  of  compass  in  his 
soul  seemed  all  awry.  Yet  the  magnetic  needle 
pointed  true.  To  turn  to  that  was  safe.  He  may 
have  found  it  natural,  through  the  passionate  wea- 
ther of  immaturity,  to  be  an  irreproachable  youth  ; 
but  he  did  not  find  it  easy.  His  nature  was  too  fine, 
too  complex,  for  mere  commonplace  correctness. 

Duty?  What  icas  duty?  He  sought  it  in  his 
own  young  heart,  but  conflict  answered  him.  He 
asked  it  —  for  he  was  a  wakeful  lad  —  of  the  blaz- 
ing stars  of  the  Eastern  night ;  he  looked  down  into 
the  red  heart  of  the  wild  lily  for  it,  and  up  through 
the  green  arches  of  the  mountain  woods  he  peered  in 
search  of  it.  But  neither  nature  nor  his  own  being 
replied  distinctly.  There  were  long  spaces  when 
even  his  mother's  fine  perception  could  not  help  him. 
She  admitted  to  herself  that  she  did  not  always 
know  how  to  treat  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  misun- 
derstood. But  he  accepted  the  fact  with  a  patience 
not  to  be  expected  of  his  years  or  of  his  tempera- 
ment. For  he  had  now  come  to  recognize  that  he 
did  not  understand  himself. 


CHAPTER  II 

A    BEAUTIFUL    SCENE 

How  docile,  how  silent  the  years !  Eighteen  of 
them  lay  between  the  visit  of  the  lad  to  the  Temple 
and  the  entrance  of  the  young  man  upon  public 
life. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  overestimate  the  self- 
repression  required  of  any  strong  and  gifted  nature 
put  through  an  apprenticeship  of  solitude  and  of 
patience  like  that  to  which  Jesus  was  subjected  be- 
fore the  opening  of  his  career.  In  his  case  we  have 
the  added  element  of  his  mystical  superiority.  That 
which  would  have  been  a  blossoming  or  a  blighting 
experience  for  an  ordinary  being,  —  what  did  it  mean 
to  him  ? 

Evidently,  the  subjection  of  a  strong  will  to  that 
of  parental  judgment;  the  power  to  live  a  village 
life  without  being  narrowed  by  it ;  formation  of  the 
habits  of  a  keen  and  quiet  observer  of  men  ;  the* 
silent  study  of  the  religion  and  history  of  his  people 
and  times ;  intense  love  of  Nature,  and  the  learning 
of  her  more  valuable  lessons,  —  these  Nazareth  taught 
him,  slowly  and  thoroughly  ;  for  nothing  was  forced 
in  his  training,  nothing  hurried,  nothing  skimmed. 
God  took  time  enough  to  educate  Jesus  Christ.  No 
half -taught,  undeveloped  character,  no  "  self-made" 


A  BEAUTIFUL  SCENE  63 

mind,  was  thrust  into  the  greatest  career  of  history. 
And  still  beyond  the  obvious  effects  of  Nazareth 
upon  the  young  man,  there  was  the  something  that 
we  cannot  weigh  and  may  not  measure,  —  the  ele- 
ment of  the  incalculable,  the  touch  of  that  which  he 
who  claims  to  understand  and  reduce  to  language 
shows  thereby  that  he  understands  the  least  of  any. 

lib  would  not  be  difficult  to  gauge  the  mental 
conditions  of  a  young  and  ardent  contemporary  of 
Christ,  whose  preparation  for  public  life  lay  also 
in  retirement  and  renunciation ;  for  such  a  nature 
speaks  our  language.  That  of  Christ  forever  calls 
for  interpretation.  His  first  important  interpreter 
was  the  young  man  of  whom  we  speak.  The  two 
were  related,  their  lives  connected  by  strange  pre- 
natal history  ;  yet  their  homes  were  far  apart,  one 
being  in  Galilee  and  one  in  Southern  Judea ;  and 
they  had  nothing  which  could  properly  be  called 
personal  acquaintance  with  each  other  up  to  the 
time  of  the  beautiful  and  dramatic  hour  which 
ushered  in  the  public  career  of  Christ. 

It  was  a  mild  day  l  in  the  late  autumn,  or  the 
early  winter,  of  what  we  number  as  the  year  of 
Rome  780.  The  Jordan,  a  picturesque,  and  for  its 
entire  course  a  lonely  river,  —  scarcely  sixty  miles 
from  Gennesaret  to  the  Dead  Sea  in  a  straight  line, 
but  two  hundred  by  its  windings,  —  had  been  for 
some  months  the  scene  of  unusual  activity.  Every- 
body was  talking  of  a  recluse  who  had  suddenly 
left  his  retirement,  and  was  teaching  upon  the  banks 
of  the  stream. 

1  The  6th  or  10th  of  January.     Tradition 


64  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

The  forerunners  of  revolutions  are  among  the 
most  interesting  men  in  history,  but  they  are  among 
the  least  understood  ;  nor  do  they  easily  understand 
themselves.  Life,  fate,  the  souls  of  men,  their  own 
natures,  even  the  nature  of  the  great  movements 
which  they  represent,  are  liable  to  undergo  a  pecu- 
liar confusion  of  outline  in  their  minds.  They  are 
not  good  judges  of  affairs  ;  almost  always  preju- 
diced ;  apt  to  be  dreamy  and  not  practical,  or  obsti- 
nate and  short-sighted. 

He  who  was  called  the  Baptist  was  a  person  of 
extraordinary  beauty  of  spirit.  Few  men  who  have 
been  important  to  human  affairs  have  sunk  them- 
selves so  utterly  in  the  depths  of  the  cause  to  which 
they  have  offered  dedication. 

He  did  not  so  much  as  stop  to  think  what  men 
would  think  of  him,  or  whether  they  would  think  of 
him  at  all.  He  was  the  servant  of  a  great  idea,  and 
he  did  not  offer  it  the  discourtesy  of  any  visible  in- 
terest in  himself. 

The  wilderness  of  Judea  was  the  favorite  resort 
at  that  time  of  recluses,  —  more  or  less  miserable 
men,  disgusted  with  the  abominations  and  follies  of 
their  times,  and  taking  to  what  they  called  philoso- 
phy as  a  substitute  for  faith,  replacing  happiness  by 
solitude  and  superstition.  These  poor  souls  existed, 
and  shivered,  and  starved,  and  quarreled  in  the 
ghastly  clefts  and  caves  of  the  great  Judean  deserts. 

John  began  life  like  the  rest  of  them,  unno- 
ticed, a  solitary,  a  person  of  no  consequence,  a  fre- 
quenter of  the  hills,  the  cliffs,  the  caves,  and  the 
gorges  ;  a  man  who  could  not  live  like  other  people. 


A   BEAUTIFUL   SCENE  65 

but  must  needs  concern  himself  with  impossible 
theories  of  more  impossible  practice ;  a  person  to 
be  pitied,  or  ridiculed,  or  tolerated,  or  respected, 
according  to  one's  temperament. 

How  or  when  he  had  become  other  or  more,  who 
knew?  Where  had  he  crossed  the  invisible  line 
between  obscurity  and  eminence  ?  Long  before  the 
day  of  which  we  think,  John  had  become  a  person 
of  influence. 

The  region  of  the  Jordan  had  been  for  some  time, 
in  fact,  the  scene  of  an  extensive  religious  excite- 
ment ;  and  the  young  solitary  was  the  centre  of  it. 
Judea,  Perea,  Galilee,  the  people,  the  government, 
Jews,  Gentiles,  travelers,  the  hills,  the  hamlets,  and 
the  desert  whispered  to  each  other.  For  five  hun- 
dred years  the  Hebrews  had  numbered  no  prophet 
among  their  great  men.  The  rumor  that  one  had 
come  up  out  of  the  desert  excited  the  keenest  in- 
terest. Quickly  and  quietly  the  crowd  began  to 
thicken.  John  had  now  a  regular  audience. 

This  young  man,  spare  with  long  fasting,  with 
vigils,  with  prayers,  weather-beaten  and  weather- 
colored,  with  the  long,  uncut  hair  and  beard  of  a 
special  vow,  was  a  stern  and  sombre  figure.  He 
fortified  himself  for  a  day  of  hard  public  speaking 
by  eating  a  few  dried  locusts  (the  food  of  beggars 
and  of  the  squalid  poor),  and  added  the  honey  with 
which  the  multitudinous  wild  bees  stored  the  wil- 
derness of  Judea.  This  religious  enthusiast  wore  a 
single  garment  of  the  roughest  weave  of  camel' s-hair 
cloth  ;  and  his  head-dress  was  the  simplest  possible 
arrangement  of  stuff,  sufficient  to  protect  from  the 


66  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

sun.  He  was  tall  and  grave.  He  discoursed  of 
serious  things.  The  dark-skinned  faces  lifted  to  his 
grew  sober.  Fear  sat  upon  many  ;  hope  on  others ; 
attention  on  all. 

John  was  not  a  flattering  speaker ;  he  had  no 
adroitness,  and  little  mind  to  trouble  himself  whether 
he  knocked  a  man's  vanity  flat  with  the  bludgeon  of 
a  condemnatory  peroration  ;  but  there  was  a  secret 
in  his  popularity.  He  was  believed  to  handle  a 
political  idea,  the  favorite  of  the  Jews,  and  the  im- 
pulse of  the  times. 

The  Messianic  expectation  was  in  the  air  of  Pal- 
estine. The  Temple  and  the  market-place  buzzed 
with  it,  the  caravans  whispered  of  it,  Eoman  rulers 
feared  it,  and  Jewish  scribes  consulted  of  it.  Her- 
mon,  and  Carmel,  and  Zion  watched  for  it ;  the 
waves  of  the  Galilean  Sea  repeated  it,  and  Jordan 
reflected  it.  John,  like  all  forerunners  of  great 
masters  and  great  movements,  was  as  much  the 
product  of  his  times  as  the  honey  was  the  work  of 
the  wild  bee,  or  the  gray-lined  leaf  the  growth  of  the 
olive  bough,  or  the  corn  the  consequence  of  the  seed. 
He  preached  what  men  wanted,  expected,  and  were 
ready  for. 

The  horizon  of  Nazareth  was  past  its  warmth  and 
color,  for  winter  was  at  hand.  The  mountains  lifted 
dark  profiles  against  a  thoughtful  sky.  The  best 
and  burst  of  the  blossom  had  dropped  from  the 
landscape.  The  traveler  thought  of  this  as  he 
turned  his  face  towards  a  ford  in  the  Jordan,  which 
lay  perhaps  twenty  miles  away.  Jesus  had  grown 


A  BEAUTIFUL  SCENE  67 

to  manhood  in  a  world  of  flowers,  the  barren  hills 
yielding  more  scarlet  ranunculus  and  red  anemone 
than  pasturage  ;  the  rock-roses,  white  and  pink,  ran 
everywhere.  His  eyes  were  early  trained  to  the  tints 
of  narcissus,  iris,  and  the  red  tulip.  He  knew  the 
pink  convolvulus  and  daisy;  he  loved  the  cyclamen 
and  asphodel. 

But  when  he  went  out  to  the  first  act  of  his  pub- 
lic life,  he  walked  in  the  dying  of  the  year.  Re- 
sponsive to  signs  and  omens,  like  all  his  race,  did  he 
think  of  this,  as  he  made  his  solitary  way  towards 
Jordan,  gleaming  below  terraces  of  sycamore  and 
tamarisk  trees  and  lined  by  fringes  of  reeds  ?  For 
he  went  alone,  moved  by  the  voices  which  speak 
only  to  separateness. 

Behind  him  lay  the  assured  past,  —  his  youth, 
sheltered,  peaceful  ;  all  the  calm  and  cheerful  years 
that  precede  responsibility ;  monotonous  daily  labor, 
respected  and  respectable,  but  safe  ;  his  gentle  home  ; 
his  mother,  with  the  aureola  in  her  eyes, —  his  mother, 
a  widow  now,  for  Joseph  of  the  strong  arm  and  great 
fatherly  heart  was  dead  ;  his  mother,  needing  him. 

Before  him  lay  the  future  of  a  marked  life ;  a 
future  towards  which  he  felt  impelled,  as  one  feels 
impelled  to  make  a  leap  into  the  fog,  for  the  sake 
of  a  motive  blinder  yet  than  the  abyss  into  which 
one  plunges. 

Whither  did  his  steps  tend  as  he  trod  the  path 
to  the  banks  of  Jordan?  Whither  did  his  purpose 
move  ?  Beyond  the  investigation  of  a  local  reli- 
gious revival,  of  which  Nazareth  talked  like  the  rest 
of  the  world,  what  did  that  journey  mean? 


68  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Had  be  been  asked,  he  would  have  made  no  an- 
swer ;  it  may  be  said  that  he  did  not  distinctly  know 
himself.  Led  by  the  first  impulse  of  maturing  char- 
acter, he  sought  the  thick  of  the  spiritual  battle 
nearest  him.  Yet  he  did  not  go  sombrely,  as  a 
soldier  enlisted  for  his  death  ;  rather  happily,  as  a 
dreamer  following  his  vision ;  or  humbly,  as  a  thinker 
asking  a  great  question :  let  the  answer,  be  it  what 
it  would,  —  for  joy  or  for  anguish,  for  success  or  for 
failure,  —  let  the  answer  come  ! 

Through  the  thick  growth  of  the  river  banks  he 
came  out  suddenly  upon  the  glancing  stream.  The 
tall  reeds,  swaying  to  the  light  winds,  parted  and 
closed  above  his  head.  At  some  little  distance  above 
him,  a  crowd  of  Jews  were  drawing  about  a  young 
ascetic.  He  of  Nazareth,  being  unobserved,  gath- 
ered himself  against  the  shadow  of  the  reeds,  and, 
standing  silently,  looked  and  listened. 

John  had  no  velvet  tongue,  but  his  audience 
seemed  to  like  him  none  the  less  for  that.  The  adu- 
lations, nay,  even  the  courtesies  of  oratory,  were 
absent  from  his  speech.  He  arraigned  his  times 
and  his  hearers.  The  banks  of  the  river  rang  with 
tremendous  exhortations. 

"  Repent !  repent !  Look  to  your  sins  !  The 
time  is  short.  The  Kingdom  is  at  hand.  The  King- 
dom of  Heaven  cometh.  Repent !  confess  ! " 

Gentler  tones  succeeded.  There  were  persuasions 
to  a  better  life.  There  were  hints  and  more  than 
hints  of  better  public  conditions  and  of  brighter 
personal  hopes.  The  great  political  yearnings  and 
beliefs  of  the  Jews  were  gathered  into  a  form  vague 


A   BEAUTIFUL  SCENE  69 

at  first,  then  clearer,  then  definite,  then  positive. 
The  speaker  threatened,  but  he  promised ;  he  con- 
demned, but  he  reassured.  He  scathed  his  hearers 
for  their  vices,  but  he  flung  before  them  the  banner 
of  their  great  National  Hope,  their  long-cherished, 
proud,  and  splendid  expectation  :  "  Your  Deliverer 
is  within  reach  !  Your  Hero  is  here  !  He  whom  ye 
have  trusted  and  awaited  is  close  at  hand.  Behold, 
he  cometh  !  Prepare  the  way  for  him  !  " 

Now  the  people,  hearing  these  stirring  words,  and 
wrought  upon  with  the  eloquence  of  the  young 
speaker,  took  upon  themselves  a  natural  conclusion. 
Who  should  this  man  be  who  had  troubled  the  waters 
of  Jordan  for  so  many  a  day  ?  See  Jerusalem,  and 
Bethlehem,  and  Jericho,  and  the  hill  country,  and  the 
desert,  thronging  to  follow  this  extraordinary  recluse, 
who  sought  nothing,  claimed  nothing  for  himself ! 
—  this  eloquent,  self -forgetting  being,  burning  in 
the  flame  of  truth,  and  thinking  no  more  of  his  own 
interest  than  the  angels  who  talked  with  Abraham 
or  wrestled  with  Jacob ! 

So  his  listeners  pressed  upon  him.  "  Thou,"  they 
cried,  "  art  He !  Thou  art  no  prophet,  but  He  Him- 
self !  Thou  art  He  whom  we  have  sought  so  long !  " 

Then  swiftly  over  the  face  of  John  there  came 
the  unconscious  and  the  noble  look  of  one  who  does 
not  even  recognize  the  high  nature  of  the  deed  he 
does.  In  his  hands  at  that  moment  he  held  the 
chance  of  such  an  attractive  though  delusive  per- 
sonal history  as  few  men  have  had.  The  emotional 
Jews  were  ready  to  take  him  for  his  own  Christ. 
He  could  have  passed  for  their  Messiah  much  more 


70  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

easily  than  he  could  persuade  them  just  then  that 
he  was  not  the  man. 

The  watcher  by  the  river  bank  took  a  few  steps 
forward  and  upward  of  the  stream ;  so,  drawing 
nearer,  but  still  unnoticed,  he  could  hear  more 
plainly  what  took  place  between  the  speaker  and  the 
people.  "  Why  should  we  look  for  another  ?  Art 
thou  not  He  ?  Thou  art  He  !  " 

"Nay — nay,  I  am  not  He.  I  am  not  worthy  to 
unloose  the  fastening  of  his  sandal.  He  cometh 
after,  but  He  is  preferred  before.  He  is  before  me 
and  above  me.  I  baptize  you  with  this  water." 

As  John  spoke  he  gently  drew  one  of  the  throng 
towards  him  into  the  ford,  and  moving  to  the  shal- 
low of  the  river  baptized  the  penitent.  This  was 
done  with  the  solemnity  of  one  who  believed  in  the 
sacredness  of  the  act,  and  his  own  reverence  there- 
for was  seen  to  extend  quickly  to  the  people. 

"  There  cometh  One,"  he  murmured,  "  He  shall 
bathe  you  with  fire,  and  with  the  Spirit  which  is 
Holy.  Repent !  for  He  is  mightier  than  I !  "  As 
he  spoke  these  last  three  words  he  perceived  sud- 
denly that  he  was  observed  by  a  stranger  standing 
apart  on  the  banks  of  the  stream.  The  color  fled 
quickly  from  the  dark  face  of  the  young  prophet. 
He  ceased  abruptly,  and  strode  towards  the  figure. 

The  two  young  men  stood  for  a  moment  face  to 
face  without  speaking  to  each  other.  John  was  still 
pale,  and  the  ragged  fringe  on  the  edge  of  his  coarse 
garment  trembled  below  his  leathern  girdle. 

He  of  Nazareth,  in  a  light  talith,  against  the 
dark  background  of  the  reeds  and  river  trees,  took 


A  BEAUTIFUL  SCENE   .  71 

on  a  strong  relief.  Their  eyes  —  in  both  the  solemn, 
searching  eyes  of  the  devotee,  undistracted  by  diver- 
sion, deepened  by  thought,  undaunted  by  self-denial, 
darkened  by  the  unconscious  shadow  of  coming 
martyrdom  —  questioned  each  other.  Those  of  the 
one  asked : 

"  Who  art  thou  ?  " 

And  those  of  the  other  made  strange  answer,  not 
saying : 

"  I  am  He,"  but  rather  repeating,  "  Who  am  I  ? 
Read  me  to  myself."  Words  added  little  to  that 
instantaneous  recognition  of  the  spirit. 

Neither  could  have  put  into  language  what  that 
moment  meant  to  each.  The  face  of  John  grew 
rapt.  But  on  that  of  the  Nazarene  a  gentle  trouble 
lay.  Possessed  by  who  knew  what  thoughts,  he  had 
sought  the  haunts  of  the  popular  teacher.  Driven 
by  who  could  say  what  longing  for  recognition,  of 
which  he  sorely  felt  the  need,  he  had  come  to  his 
unknown  kinsman,  this  young  man  whose  public 
career  had  already  so  much  the  start  of  his  own. 
With  the  touching  humility  characteristic  of  his 
whole  life,  he  depended  on  his  cousin  for  that  en- 
couragement without  which  he  would  not,  perhaps 
could  not,  have  trusted  the  stirring  of  his  own  na- 
ture. On  John  fell  the  double  responsibility  of 
recognition  and  of  interpretation ;  he  must  identify 
Christ  to  himself,  as  well  as  to  the  people.  One 
gesture  did  it,  —  one  swift  Oriental  gesture  of  rev- 
erence, of  worship.  John's  suffused  eyes,  bowed 
head,  outstretched  hands,  sinking  body,  prostrate 
being,  cried :  "  Thou  art  He  !  " 


72  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Still  the  face  of  the  other,  too  gentle,  too  humble, 
to  mistake  the  moment,  regarded  him  perplexedly. 
"TFAoaml?"  it  said. 

The  people  had  now  begun  to  press  down  the 
river  bank  towards  the  prophet,  but  John,  by  a  mo- 
tion which  would  have  been  impatient  in  a  pettier 
man  and  at  a  lesser  crisis  of  feeling,  ordered  them 
to  keep  their  distance.  The  two  were  therefore  still 
apart  and  undisturbed.  The  waters  of  the  ford, 
deepening  where  they  now  stood,  ran  calmer  and 
darker.  The  slender  leaves  of  a  willow  on  the 
banks  dropped  into  the  stream  and  floated  down. 
Tree-tops  were  reflected  brokenly  in  the  river,  —  a 
palm,  a  red  tamarisk,  a  clump  of  oleanders,  and  a 
few  white-stemmed  sycamores,  beyond  the  fringe  of 
reeds.  Doves  shimmered  overhead.  The  sky  was 
warm  and  deep.  The  Nazarene  stepped  down  into 
the  water. 

Startled,  incredulous,  shocked,  John  perceived 
that  Jesus  was  seeking  the  submission  of  baptism. 
The  young  man's  whole  nature  rose  in  noble  revolt 
against  the  situation  in  which  he  so  unexpectedly 
found  himself.  He  was  destitute  of  the  motives  of 
ordinary  forerunners  of  heroes :  at  the  first  intima- 
tion that  his  day  was  over,  he  was  ready  to  drop  the 
symbol  and  the  substance  of  power;  preeminence 
was  nothing  to  him,  the  sweets  of  leadership,  the  fas- 
cination of  oratory,  —  nothing  and  less!  He  longed 
only  to  be  true  to  his  one  errand  in  the  world,  only 
to  be  the  prologue  to  the  drama,  the  herald  before 
the  king ;  only  to  be  blotted,  forgotten,  obliterated 
in  the  glory  and  the  story  of  the  Wonderful ! 


A   BEAUTIFUL   SCENE  73 

"  Nay,  nay.  Comest  thou  to  me,  ?  Rather  I  to 
thee !  " 

Bat  Jesus,  smiling,  had  his  will ;  and  gently  and 
enigmatically  urging,  "  Suffer  it  to  be,  for  now,"  he 
waded  into  the  water  and  received  from  the  awed 
and  trembling  hands  of  his  kinsman  the  rite  of  ded- 
ication to  a  religious  life.  But  when  he  came  up 
out  of  the  shining  river  the  people  had  run  down 
the  banks  of  the  stream,  and  many  of  them  stood 
collected  to  see  the  newcomer,  about  whose  baptism 
there  seemed  to  be  something  of  special  interest 
which  they  had  missed.  They  had  scrambled  along 
chattering,  but  a  quietness  fell  on  them  when  they 
reached  the  spot.  For  the  look  on  the  faces  of  the 
two  young  men  was  not  a  thing  to  gossip  in  the 
presence  of,  however  much  or  long  one  might  talk 
of  it  in  after  times. 

And,  while  the  whole  group  stood,  thoughtful,  a 
cream-white  dove  that  had  been  flying  to  and  fro 
across  Jordan  rose  high  in  the  heavens  and  swept 
out  of  sight.  The  stranger  had  fixed  his  gaze  upon 
the  flight  of  the  dove ;  and,  thus,  dripping  with 
gleaming  water,  with  upraised  face,  he  seemed  en- 
tirely preoccupied  with  the  movements  of  the  bird. 
John,  wondering  at  his  absorption  in  this  trifle,  drew 
near  to  observe  the  other,  and,  seeing  that  he  was  at 
prayer,  reverently  drew  back.  The  bird  swept  into 
sight  again  ;  graceful,  snowy,  palpitating  like  a  thing 
half  bird,  half  lily,  pure  as  the  film  of  the  cloud, 
through  which  it  descended  slowly.  The  dove 
dipped  toward  the  water,  and  with  a  few  encircling 
movements  settled  gently  upon  the  head  of  Jesus, 


74  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

whose  uplifted  countenance  it  seemed  to  study  with 
that  strange  distance  which  the  observation  of  a 
bird  puts  between  itself  and  a  human  face,  as  if  it 
came  from  a  sphere  too  high  to  touch  humanity. 
Almost  before  one  could  say  that  it  had  rested  upon 
the  man,  it  had  ascended  from  him  and  melted  into 
the  sky. 

A  little  murmur  ran  through  the  crowd  at  the 
beautiful  sight ;  the  people,  who  must  always  talk 
of  whatever  happens,  turned  to  say  something  each 
to  his  neighbor.  But  Jesus  and  John,  who  did  not 
speak,  listened  with  held  breath.  Again  their  eyes 
met  solemnly,  each  with  a  question  in  them. 

"  Didst  thou  hear  aught  ?  " 

"Didst  thou?  "  .  .  . 

Afterwards  a  strange  thing  was  said  about  the 
dove.  It  was  reported  that  John,  whose  severe  and 
honorable  word  was  not  to  be  doubted,  had  heard 
intelligible  sounds  from  the  heavens  when  the  bird 
swept  from  the  sky  upon  the  head  of  the  newly-bap- 
tized man ;  it  was  added  that  the  other  had  himself 
heard  them,  and  more  than  these,  and  that  the 
words  had  a  meaning  which  no  man  else  could  un- 
derstand. 

Some  said  that  this  was  the  Bath-qol,  or  Daughter 
Voice,  common  to  the  over-excited  imagination  of  the 
Jews,  by  which  those  who  were  quite  ready  to  be' 
lieve  in  it  found  their  affairs  regulated,  —  business, 
marriage,  travel,  and  the  like. 

But  there  were  those  who  shook  their  heads  and 
observed  with  significance  that  John  was  not  a 
man  to  trouble  himself  about  the  Daughter  Voice. 


A  BEAUTIFUL   SCENE  75 

It  was  said  that  the  stranger,  standing  in  the  Jordan 
with  the  light  of  a  fresh  religious  vow  upon  his 
lifted  face,  with  prayer  in  his  eyes  and  the  dove 
circling  to  his  brow,  had  been  identified  of  Heaven 
(John  being  witness  to  the  fact)  in  mystical  lan- 
guage : 

"  My  beloved  son !  "  What  manner  of  words 
were  these  ?  "  I  am  well  pleased  with  thee  !  "  What 
should  be  made  of  it  ? 

There  were  not  wanting  philosophers  and  dreamers 
as  well  as  common  folk,  who  claimed  that  John  and 
his  kinsman  had  indeed  heard  that  to  which  other 
ears  were  deaf :  for  it  was  well  known  to  Oriental 
students  that  there  are  senses  beyond  the  familiar 
five  whose  culture  is  within  a  man's  own  control,  and 
whose  grasp  may  reach  strange  facts,  both  of  the 
mind  and  of  the  body;  and  whose  witness  of  the 
marvelous  no  man  less  devout,  less  pure,  less  edu- 
cated in  higher  truth  than  he  who  testifies  thereof 
has  the  right  to  dispute.  At  all  events,  it  could 
not  be  denied  that  the  beautiful  baptismal  scene 
on  Jordan  bade  fair  to  become  a  public  event  of 
marked  importance. 

The  newly-baptized  man  was  quickly  made  aware 
that  he  had  become  the  centre  of  observation.  The 
followers  of  the  young  prophet,  half  irresolute  be- 
tween the  two,  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with 
their  piercing  Jewish  eyes.  Certain  of  the  bolder 
in  the  throng  pressed  curiously  forward  towards  the 
stranger :  a  Pharisee  in  full  phylactery  and  a  He- 
brew merchant,  both  bent,  it  was  clearly  to  be  seen, 
on  a  good  bout  of  polemics ;  a  Roman  citizen  and  a 


76  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Greek  traveler  followed  with  the  more  nonchalant 
interest  of  men  of  the  world  in  a  passing  episode. 

But  the  Nazarene,  stunned  with  the  awful  creden- 
tials which  John  had  given  over  to  him,  and  thrill- 
ing with  the  mystical  experience  of  the  past  hour, 
turned  abruptly  away. 

With  bowed  head  he  passed  through  the  shivering 
river  reeds  in  the  direction  of  the  desert. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   WILDERNESS 

FROM  an  early  Jewish  writer  have  come  down  to 
us  these  fine  words  :  "  The  Holy  One,  blessed  be 
His  Name,  does  not  elevate  a  man  to  dignity  till  He 
has  first  tried  and  searched  him ;  and  if  he  stands 
in  temptation,  then  He  raises  him  to  dignity." 

Overwhelmed  with  the  events  of  the  day,  Jesus 
sought  the  solitude  which  it  was  his  first  and  his 
second  nature  to  love.  There  was  nothing  better 
to  be  done  for  the  crowd  at  that  moment  than  to 
gratify  its  curiosity,  which  he  had  no  disposition 
to  do ;  he  escaped  it,  and,  pushing  through  the  reeds 
which  grew  above  his  tall  height,  left  the  river 
rapidly  behind  him. 

The  Judean  desert  was,  of  all  the  wildernesses  to 
to  be  found  in  the  vicinity  of  civilization,  one  of  the 
most  dreary  and  uncanny.  The  Jews,  with  grim 
succinctness,  called  it  The  Horror,  The  Appalling 
Desolation. 

Jesus  walked  strongly  and  quickly.  After  a  few 
hours  he  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  western 
hills,  in  a  more  desolate  region  and  quite  alone. 
Day  was  declining ;  and  the  heads  and  shoulders  of 
the  bare  chalk  hills  were  at  their  kindest  colors  in 
the  mellow  before  the  sunset ;  but  these  were  cold 


78  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

enough.  Flint-bound  ridges  looked  icily  at  each 
other,  as  if  they  intimated  dark  thoughts  which  they 
were  forbidden  to  communicate.  No  sign  of  life 
was  visible  except  the  birds  of  the  desert,  and  now 
and  then  one  of  its  sly,  wild  animals.  A  few  stray 
thrushes  uttered  melancholy  notes.  A  black  grackle 
with  yellow  wings  flew  over  the  traveler's  head  and 
rose,  vanishing.  Vultures  circled  low  in  grim  spots 
about  the  landscape.  An  unseen  fox,  or  desert  par- 
tridge, waiting  for  the  dark,  slipped  stealthily  among 
the  rocks. 

Westward,  valleys  of  tremendous  depth  already 
held  the  night.  Passage  through  them  was  not  to 
be  thought  of,  they  were  so  steep  and  deep,  except 
in  their  troughs  below.  Southward  this  grim  coun- 
try was  impassable.  Far  away  lay  the  only  inhab- 
ited spot  in  the  desert,  —  a  town,  Engedi  by  name. 
A  few  reservoirs,  in  hard  limestone,  held  the  only 
water  of  the  thirsty  landscape.  There  were  tales  of 
terrible  torrents  in  winter  and  spring,  and  gorges  of 
incredible  depth  told  the  story  of  the  rush  of  fresh- 
ets from  the  heights.  On  the  hills  grew  only  the 
plants  that  ask  no  water ;  dry,  sinister,  with  a  skin 
prickly  to  the  touch.  In  the  valleys  a  white  broom 
thickened  courageously,  but  this  bloomed  in  March. 
In  the  summer  the  desert  was  a  land  of  drought.  In 
the  winter  it  held  the  chill  and  the  repulsiveness  of 
the  grave.  In  the  night  it  had  the  outlines  and  the 
shadows  of  sorcery,  of  the  supernatural,  of  the  ter- 
rors that  come  after  the  grave. 

Night  was  coming  on.  Jesus  climbed  to  the  front 
of  a  high  cliff,  and  looked  about  him.  He  saw  the 


THE   WILDERNESS  79 

chalk  of  the  midland  hills  sloping  from  three  thou- 
sand feet  yonder,  near  Hebron,  to  half  that  height 
at  the  valley  of  the  Dead  Sea.  He  saw  a  country 
of  caves  and  gorges,  of  secrecy,  of  shadow,  of  un- 
clean and  venomous  creatures,  of  skulking  things 
and  hiding  men.  For  he  remembered  that  there 
were  men  who  chose  the  desert  for  their  only  home  ; 
hermits  and  philosophers,  robbers  and  refugees  from 
justice,  and  those  weary  of  life ;  dwellers  in  caves 
and  brooders  upon  mystery.  One  of  these  came  out 
from  a  cavern  that  gaped  black  below  the  cliff  on  N 
whose  edge  the  Nazarene  was  standing,  stared  up  at 
him  sulkily  for  a  moment  with  gaunt  eyes,  and  flit- 
ted away  like  a  bat.  This  momentary  sign  of  human 
life  served  only  to  emphasize  the  sense  of  desolation 
hanging  over  the  place. 

The  swift  Oriental  night  swept  on  in  large  masses. 
The  long  lines  of  the  gorges  took  on  frightful  pro- 
portions in  the  gloom.  One  came  upon  them  unex- 
pectedly. A  false  step  might  hurl  a  man  to  a  tomb 
in  which  he  would  never  be  found.  The  solitary, 
feeling  his  way  slowly  through  the  twilight,  op- 
pressed by  thought  too  tense  to  be  aware  of  danger, 
suddenly  drew  back.  His  foot  had  struck  the  edge 
of  a  chasm,  yawning  thirty  or  forty  feet  across  his 
way  ;  he  peered  over ;  the  bottom  lay  at  the  least  a 
thousand  feet  down. 

The  sun  was  now  quite  set,  and  the  chill  of  night 
was  descending.  Jesus,  perceiving  that  it  would 
be  impracticable  to  continue  his  wanderings,  sought 
such  shelter  for  the  night  as  the  inhospitable  place 
afforded,  —  a  cleft  in  the  rock,  an  uninhabited  cave? 


80  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

a  cushion  of  the  dry  plants  that  had  no  thirst,  and 
that  seemed  when  he  touched  them  like  an  unnatural 
form  of  organism  which  shrank  from  him.  The 
stars  sprang  out  and  the  dew  fell.  Ravens  croaked 
in  some  dismal  distance.  A  rare  viper,  whose  lair 
he  had  disturbed,  hissed  at  his  feet.  The  hills,  in 
the  darkness,  took  on  portentous  forms.  The  val- 
leys sank  away  from  the  solid  earth  like  bottomless 
pits.  He  had  eaten  nothing  for  some  hours,  and 
it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  provide  himself  with  food. 
His  mind  and  heart  were  in  a  tumult  which  he  found 
it  difficult  to  understand  or  to  calm. 

The  scenes  and  events  of  the  day  returned  like 
doors  folding  upon  themselves ;  through  their  aper- 
tures he  passed  and  repassed.  The  long,  dusty  walk ; 
vanished  Nazareth ;  the  watchful  trees  that  guarded 
Jordan ;  the  tall  reeds ;  the  gleaming  river ;  the 
crowds  lining  the  stream  ;  the  face  and  figure  of  the 
young  prophet,  his  impassioned  words,  his  burning 
eyes,  his  sudden  recognition,  his  beautiful  obeisance  ; 
the  touch  of  the  cool  water;  the  emotions  with 
which  the  sacred  rite  had  been  accepted,  —  followed 
fast  in  turn  again.  In  the  dead  dark  of  the  desert 
the  shining  of  the  white  dove  glimmered  from  the 
sky.  From  the  silence  of  the  wilderness  throbbed 
up  the  echo  of  The  Voice  :  "  Thou  —  thou  art  My 
beloved  Son. " 

The  dull  ear  had  not  heard  it,  nor  the  deaf  with 
pettiness  and  worldliness  and  vice.  The  senses  of 
the  pure  spirit  understood  it,  for  to  them  it  spoke. 
The  perplexed  and  solitary  man,  pondering  over  all 
things,  —  life,  death,  truth,  his  own  past,  his  own 


THE  JORDAN 


THE   WILDERNESS  81 

future,  his  duty,  and  bis  fate,  —  could  not  doubt  that 
he  had  heard  from  the  Invisible  these  to  most  men 
inaudible  words.  The  thrill  of  them  was  on  him 
yet.  Whence  did  they  come  ?  WHO  uttered  them  ? 
What  did  they  mean  ?  What  did  they  involve  in 
him  who  had  been  chosen  by  their  solemn  articula- 
tion ?  It  were  a  deadly  thing  to  mistake  a  syllable 
of  them.  What  depended  upon  their  correct  com- 
prehension? The  course  of  a  whole  life's  history 
must  be  decided  in  a  few  days  and  nights  of  thought 
and  solitude  ;  but  that,  to  the  watcher  in  the  desert, 
was  the  least  of  his  problem.  The  fate  of  an  ancient 
people,  the  fulfillment  of  a  great  hope  and  of  stately 
prophecy,  the  outcry  of  humanity,  the  pitiable  pas- 
sion of  the  earth,  crowded  upon  his  consciousness. 
"  Thou  shalt  carry  the  sins  of  the  world" 
These  words  pursued  him.  The  scream  of  a  night-  \ 
bird  in  the  desert  cried  across  them  ;  the  howling  of 
a  wolf,  the  barking  of  a  jackal  in  the  distance  min- 
gled with  them  ;  the  winds  in  the  caves  would  have 
drowned  them,  but  they  rang  on.  Where  and  when 
had  he  heard  them  ?  Were  they  the  refrain  of  some 
poem  in  the  literature  of  his  people  ?  The  echo 
of  an  ancient  past  ?  Or  were  they  the  forecast  of 
an  impending  future  ?  Six  weeks  later  these  were 
destined  to  be  almost  the  first  words  which  should 
meet  his  ears  when  he  returned  to  the  habitations  of 
men.  The  voice  of  his  young  kinsman,  he  half  com- 
manding as  a  prophet  should,  would  quiver  with  this 
salutation.  Jesus  might  have  been  astonished  to 
discover  in  himself,  as  he  paced  the  wilderness,  the 
first,  faint  intimation  of  those  extra  senses  which 


82  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

men  call  preaudience  or  prevision  ;  but  he  was  too 
far  buried  in  greater  and  deeper  thought  and  feeling 
to  dwell  as  yet  upon  the  simpler  signs  of  a  new  and 
startling  endowment.  He  who  had  but  an  hour 
since  heard  the  voice  of  God  did  not  tarry  with  the 
mystery  of  his  own  nature. 

"Thou  shalt  carry  the  sins  of  the  world,  .  .  .  thou 
'  Lamb  of  God." 

Suddenly,  bleating  and  piteous,  flashed  back  the 
face  of  a  lamb  that  he  had  seen  on  that  first  time 
when,  a  lad,  he  went  to  the  Temple,  —  a  white,  ten- 
der thing,  clinging  to  its  butchers,  bleeding!  He 
saw  the  entreaty  in  its  dumb  eyes,  their  .last  an- 
guish ;  the  red  hands  of  the  priest ;  smoke  and  fire 
on  the  dripping  altar.  .  .  . 

Day  dawned  without  cheer.  The  outlines  of  the 
great  hill  Quarantana,  prominent  because  the  last 
peak  of  a  western  ridge,  and  ending  in  a  sheer  preci- 
pice, rose  frowning.  The  watcher  directed  his  steps 
towards  it,  and,  climbing  to  its  front,  looked  off  over 
the  dismal  landscape  which  he  had  chosen  as  the 
setting  to  the  crisis  of  his  life.  The  east  broke 
grayly  with  a  sickly,  purplish  mock  of  sunrise.  The 
scorpions  crawled  into  their  hiding  places  sullenly, 
and  rooks  croaked  somewhere  close  at  ear.  A  few 
moving  blots  among  the  caves  in  the  precipice  in- 
dicated the  presence  of  the  miserable  human  beings 
who  knew  no  other  homes  than  this  jagged  country ; 
they  were  seeking  their  morning  meal.  Even  that 
starving  fare  was  not  for  the  Nazarene ;  he  found 
himself  already  faint  with  the  first  distress  of  a  hun- 


THE   WILDERNESS  83 

ger  that  was  not  to  be  of  short  duration,  and  from 
which  he  shrank,  as  all  men  do  from  the  opening 
stage  of  any  form  of  long-continued  suffering. 

For  that  he  had  come  to  the  crisis  of  his  life  his 
clear  perception  could  not  doubt.  A  threefold  pres- 
sure crowded  upon  him  and  within  him,  —  the  views 
of  other  men,  the  movements  of  his  own  soul,  and 
the  voice  of  God. 

The  thought  of  his  young  kinsman  was  plain 
enough  to  read.  John  saw  in  Jesus  the  material  for 
a  great  reformer,  —  of  spotless  personal  character, 
to  be  sure,  of  positive  religious  fervor,  of  irreproach- 
able motives ;  mysteriously  (for  who  knew,  when 
one  came  to  this,  just  what  John  meant?)  —  mys- 
teriously favored  of  Heaven,  but  a  great  leader  of 
men ;  ordained  to  hold  masses  in  his  power,  and 
fated  to  be  an  immense  personal  success,  such  a  suc- 
cess as  the  devout  mind  of  the  young  ascetic  on  the 
banks  of  Jordan  would  consider  inseparable  from 
the  career  of  the  chosen  of  God,  the  Messiah  of  a 
proud  people. 

Yet  the  views  of  John  as  to  the  nature  and  duties 
of  the  Jewish  Messiah  were  as  far  in  advance  of 
those  held  by  the  majority  of  his  hearers  as  his  life 
was  purer  than  a  Roman  gentleman's,  or  nobler 
than  a  Hebrew  Pharisee's. 

Jesus  was  too  well-educated  a  man,  too  thoroughly 
learned  in  Hebrew  literature,  to  be  at  all  misled  as 
to  the  kind  of  hero  whom  the  Hebrews  expected, 
awaited,  and  would  honor. 

In  himself  he  did  not  find  the  material  for  any 
such  ideal  as  his  people  passionately  cherished.  All 


84  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

the  traditions  of  his  race  pointed  one  way.  The 
instincts  of  his  own  nature  drew  him  in  another. 
Between  them,  gently  as  the  dove  had  floated  from 
the  sky  in  the  afternoon  light  on  Jordan,  descended 
the  whisper  of  God.  But  saying  what  ?  .  .  . 

His  strong  eye  ran  from  the  low-lying  foreground 
to  the  heights  of  Moab  and  Gilead  steadily.  Who 
was  he  —  a  young  nian,  unknown,  unbefriended,  in- 
experienced, a  rustic  from  Nazareth  —  that  he  should 
take  upon  himself  the  most  solemn  claims  possible 
to  his  people  or  his  faith  ?  What  was  he  that  he 
should  parley  with  Jehovah  ?  How  should  he  pre- 
sume to  translate  The  Voice  from  Heaven  ? 

"I  will  remain  in  this  wilderness  until  I  do." 
This  resolve  formed  itself  in  his  consciousness  with- 
out explicit  words,  as  one  familiar  with  a  foreign 
language  translates  it  without  transposition  to  his 
own  tongue.  Eesolutely  putting  in  the  background 
of  his  mind  his  personal  discomfort ;  his  sharpening 
hunger,  the  gusts  of  sickening  faintness  that  swept 
upon  him,  his  suffering  from  the  need  of  sleep,  and 
the  sense  of  loneliness  so  much  more  acute  in  a 
delicate  than  in  a  dull  organization,  —  he  held  him- 
self down  among  the  creatures  of  the  desert,  like 
one  of  them.  There  he  called  on  the  genius  of  soli- 
tude and  the  angel  of  self-deprivation,  as  all  men 
must  who  would  approach  God,  to  help  him  in  the 
first  great  definite  battle  of  a  spiritual  contest  des- 
tined to  last  till  his  final  breath  should  be  drawn  in 
agony,  and  his  final  prayer  ascend  in  peace. 

Day  succeeded  night   and   week   followed   upon 


THE   WILDERNESS  85 

week.  With  the  natural  respect  of  an  Oriental  and 
of  a  Hebrew  for  long-sustained  fasts  and  seclusion, 
it  did  not  occur  to  Jesus  that  he  was  subjecting 
himself  to  unreasonable  rigors ;  in  fact,  his  personal 
comfort  was  the  last  of  all  topics  in  his  thoughts. 
His  emotion  far  transcended  all  common  interrup- 
tions to  its  current,  whose  depth  and  strength  did 
but  increase  under  bodily  suffering. 

A  lesser  man,  acting  under  a  meaner  motive, 
might  in  the  presence  of  admiring  spectators  have 
subjected  himself  to  surprising  feats  in  starvation, 
or  burial,  or  physical  contortion,  or  to  the  vagaries 
of  voluntary  and  unnecessary  martyrdom,  seeking 
thereby  personal  glory  enough  to  pay  for  the  pro- 
cess. But  this  noble  enthusiast,  simply,  without 
calculation,  without  witnesses,  swept  on  the  stream 
of  a  great  impulse,  suffered  in  solitude  and  in  night, 
and  in  perplexity,  —  to  what  end  ?  That  his  soul 
might  know  itself  and  its  God ;  that  he  might  learn 
his  duty  and  do  it.  Yet  was  he  no  angel,  but  a 
man  ;  and  his  human  suffering  encroached  upon  his 
strength.  He  weakened  and  sickened.  Visions  of 
food  swam  before  his  eyes.  Pictures  of  home,  of 
friends,  of  long-needed  sleep,  of  his  own  rug  in  his 
mother's  house,  of  her  tender  face,  her  gentle  min- 
istration, the  evening  meal  prepared  by  her  quiet 
hands,  blurred  against  the  dark  background  of  the 
desert.  He  remembered  that  no  one  had  sought 
him  out  in  his  solitude ;  half  forgetting,  as  his  physi- 
cal distress  extended  upon  him,  that  he  himself  had 
chosen  to  be  alone.  .  .  .  Then  the  visions  again! 
Cool  fruit  heaped  up,  dusky  and  rich  of  color  in  its 


86  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

own  leaves,  sprang  out  everywhere  to  his  strained 
eye ;  the  cliffs  hung  heavy  with  purpling  grapes ; 
and  the  mouth  of  the  cave  rioted  with  fig  and  olive, 
blazed  with  luscious  melon,  crimsoned  with  alluring 
pomegranate. 

He  put  out  his  hand,  and  the  teeth  of  the  lime- 
stone bruised  him.  Fresh,  unleavened  bread  hot 
from  the  oven,  for  the  meal  of  a  sacred  day's  use, 
stood  smoking  on  the  ground ;  .  .  .  see !  piled  in 
loaves  against  the  feet  of  the  rock.  He  staggered 
up  and  stooped  over  to  pick  it  up.  .  .  .  Stone  !  — 
stone  as  cold  as  the  sepulchre,  and  as  sharp  as  fam- 
ine. 

Night  was  coming  on ;  the  shadows  of  the  desert 
took  monstrous  shapes ;  on  the  brain  disordered  by 
a  fast  already  prolonged  past  the  limits  of  torment, 
strange  impressions  were  stamped.  Uncanny  tales 
came  back  to  memory.  Sorcery  and  witchcraft  and 
demonology  were  allies  to  assault  the  intelligence 
and  the  self-possession  of  a  starving  man.  Half- 
delirious  dreams  chased  each  other  through  a  burn- 
ing brain.  The  pains  of  hunger,  which  are  outlived 
in  the  earlier  stages  of  starvation,  had  scarcely  re- 
ceived attention  in  their  time ;  for  the  greatness  of 
his  emotion  had  not  suffered  them.  Now  the  fatal 
and  inexorable  symptoms  of  the  final  failure  of 
human  strength  within  a  famished  body  drew  on. 
Delirium  and  syncope  were  close  at  hand.  Food ! 
food !  He  crept  down  the  mountain  to  a  cleft  in  the 
rock  where  water  had  collected  and  dashed  it  in  his 
haggard  face. 


THE   WILDERNESS  87 

Suddenly  within  him,  like  the  groping,  griping 
hands  of  a  strong  man  fighting  in  the  dark,  uprose 
the  movement  of  a  something  never  felt  before,  — 
new  forces  in  his  soul ;  strange  senses  of  the  spirit, 
superinduced  upon  those  of  his  fainting  body ;  the 
shadows  of  coming  gifts,  of  advancing  possibilities, 
of  unknown  facilities  of  action  and  unguessed  powers 
of  will.  What  were  these?  Whence  did  they  come? 
Whither  would  they  lead  him?  What  should  he 
do  with  them  ? 

He  sat  with  his  famished  eyes  fastened  upon  an 
oval,  flat  stone  at  his  feet ;  it  had  the  shape  of 
shew-bread,  such  as  the  priests  baked  for  their  own 
food.  He  picked  the  stone  up  and  handled  it  curi- 
ously. A  thrill  like  the  joy  of  feasting  ran  from 
his  fingers  through  his  whole  sinking  body.  At  that 
moment  he  perceived  that  he  had  but  to  open  his 
lips  and  speak  two  words  :  "  Become  bread  !  "  for 
the  rocks  of  the  wilderness  were  his.  The  hard 
heart  of  the  limestone  would  melt  like  dough  be- 
neath his  touch.  The  resources  of  the  desert  would 
obey  him.  Starvation  was  his  servant.  The  laws 
of  human  life  were  his  slaves.  He  had  but  to 
speak.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  speak.  He  laid  the  stone  down  —  and 
it  was  but  a  stone.  The  famished  man  put  his  hands 
before  his  face  and  trembled,  but  not  with  physical 
anguish ;  and  bowed  himself  to  the  earth  in  the 
dark,  but  not  with  bodily  weakness.  His  whole 
being  shook  with  the  shock  of  a  great  moral  escape. 

It  seemed  to  his  delicate  sense  of  spiritual  honor 
that  the  exertion  of  a  great  and  sacred  gift  to  selfish 


88  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

ends  were  a  heinous  desecration.  All  the  principali- 
ties and  powers  of  the  desert  air  might  summon  their 
cohorts  against  his  starving  weakness,  but  he  who 
had  heard  The  Voice  from  the  sky  above  the  river  had 
other  uses  for  his  sense  of  power,  —  this  new,  thrill- 
ing, mystical  power  to  do,  to  be,  to  dream,  to  act  the 
Will  of  God  Almighty  ;  not  his  own.  No,  never 
his  own  ;  from  this  first  moment  in  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  not  like  other  men,  to  the  last  hour  of 
his  dedicated  life,  never  his  own  will,  for  his  own 
sake,  for  his  own  ends,  for  his  own  comfort. 

There  was  another  way.  There  was  a  nobler  ex- 
ercise for  latent  and  mysterious  strength. 

The  fasting  solitary  lifted  his  hands,  his  face,  to 
the  heavens.  Food  ?  Yes,  a  man  must  have  food. 
But  of  what  kind  ?  It  was  easier  for  the  starving 
body  to  be  nourished  by  the  mind  and  heart  of  God 
than  for  the  starving  soul  to  live  on  bread  alone. 
In  his  great  exaltation,  this  profound  thought  seemed 
to  rest  at  his  drawn  and  fevered  lips  like  a  chalice. 
Perishing,  he  drank  life  from  it. 

He  had  now  reached  that  stage  of  physical  ex- 
haustion when  the  mind,  nearly  or  quite  freed  from 
its  usual  dependence  upon  the  senses,  rules  in  a 
world  of  its  own.  Vision  upon  vision  swam  before 
him ;  these  had  the  proportions  of  reality  ;  sight, 
touch,  hearing  recognized  them,  and  other  faculties, 
unknown,  unnamed,  took  hold  of  them.  Yet  his 
judgment  curiously  kept  step  with  these.  Bewil- 
dering, alluring  panorama  unfolded  before  him.  It 
was  as  if  they  rolled  and  unrolled  over  the  expanse 
of  the  whole  desert.  They  extended  so  far  that  his 


THE   WILDERNESS  89 

eye  could  not  compass  them  where  he  was,  and, 
weakly  crawling  up,  he  managed  to  reach  the  nearest 
height  above  him,  where  bleak  Quarantana  looked 
down  coldly  on  the  darkening  valleys.  Here,  soli- 
tary, observant,  silent,  he  sank  upon  the  rock. 

Swarming  below,  he  saw  the  people  of  his  race, 
mad  with  hero-worship,  but  pugnacious  to  create 
their  own  hero,  prostrating  themselves  at  his  feet. 
Their  hot  huzzas  ascended  to  his  ears.  They  were 
such  a  throng  that  their  dark,  bright,  Oriental  eyes 
rolled  like  the  little  waves  of  a  great  lake.  Their 
spokesman  held  up  a  flashing  thing,  —  a  crown ! 
Purple  robes  and  sceptre,  signets,  jewels,  flights  of 
flashing  marble  steps,  fountains,  gardens,  palisades, 
the  ante-rooms  of  a  palace,  slaves,  flowers,  banquets, 
perfumes  from  behind  the  silken  curtains  of  un- 
entered, unseen  apartments,  swept  trembling  by. 
Stately  emissaries  of  Gentile  dignitaries  awaited 
audience  of  him.  Gentile  nations,  for  his  sake, 
honored  his  race.  Persia,  Egypt,  Babylonia,  bowed 
before  the  once  scorned  and  captive  Jews.  Rome  — 
ah,  Rome !  haughty,  dreaded,  and  hated ;  Rome, 
afraid  of  her  freed  slaves,  made  terms  with  her 
equals ;  and  he  —  he,  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  dictated 
and  enforced  those  terms.  To  what  end  ?  His  own 
glory,  and  the  gratified  prejudices  and  traditions  of 
his  people.  At  what  price  ?  At  the  cost  of  a  polit- 
ical life  ;  at  the  cost  of  feverish  intrigue,  petty  rest- 
lessness, and  deliberate  emphasis  of  self;  at  the 
price  of  the  lower  motive,  the  personal  greed,  and 
indifference  to  best  ^things  which  the  politician  may 
elect  to  pay,  clothing  personal  aims  in  the  diapha- 
nous delusion  of  serving  the  public  weal. 


90  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Was  that  what  The  Voice  on  Jordan  meant  to  say  ? 
Did  the  white  wing  of  The  Dove  brush  his  bowed 
and  humble  head  for  that  ? 

Nay, nay.  "Him  only  shalt  thou  serve!"  The 
besieged  man  flung  himself  upon  the  visions  of  the 
night,  of  the  desert,  of  his  own  powerful  imagina- 
tion and  keen  intellect,  as  if  they  had  been  spirits 
of  the  nether  world,  and  as  if  it  depended  upon 
himself  alone  in  all  the  universe  to  force  the  rebel- 
lion of  moral  guilt  into  subjection  to  imperial  Good. 

Ah,  the  Temple  !  Splendid,  glittering,  marble  and 
gold ;  priests  and  altars  ;  worshipers  crowding  up 
and  down ;  the  bleeding,  burning  lambs ;  the  great 
and  gorgeous  sacred  veil,  stiff  with  embroidery  of 
blue,  of  purple,  of  crimson,  of  white,  with  golden 
cherubim  wrought  thereon ;  the  hidden  ark ;  the 
Holy  of  Holies ! 

He  passed  through  the  Gate  Beautiful,  and  wan- 
dered in  and  out.  He  reached  the  exquisite  colon- 
nade of  Solomon's  Porch,  climbed  the  highest  pin- 
nacle, and  there  stood  looking  down  and  off.  The 
gorge  of  Kedron  yawned  below  him,  —  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  sheer  down.  The  brook  lay  like 
a  bubble  below.  What  a  leap  !  .  .  . 

Yonder  in  the  courts  the  people  thronged.  Some 
were  looking  up:  they  had  caught  sight  of  him 
above  ;  they  were  speaking  to  one  another  about  him. 
Jerusalem  lay  blazing  in  the  sun ;  the  heat  of  the 
day  was  breaking ;  people  were  coming  from  their 
houses ;  the  markets  were  opening,  the  streets  were 
filling,  the  whole  world  was  there  to  see.  What  a 


THE   WILDERNESS  91 

fall !  What  a  feat !  What  a  wonder  !  It  were  only 
to  leave  this  hideous  den  of  death  and  night ;  to 
break  this  mortal  fast ;  to  gather  strength  to  make 
the  journey  by  the  fire  of  his  soul,  to  be  in  the 
Sacred  City.  When  ?  How?  Perhaps  by  the  will- 
ing of  a  wish,  by  the  motion  of  a  foot,  by  the  out- 
stretching of  an  arm.  Who  knew  how  the  strange 
powers  within  him,  newly  discovered,  freshly  lighted, 
dulled  only  by  famine  and  desolation,  waiting  for 
their  nourishment,  crying  for  their  exercise,  would 
bestir  themselves  ? 

He  felt  it  in  his  thrilling  consciousness  that  he 
could  have  floated  over  that  parapet,  and  descended 
among  the  gaping  crowd  without  a  bruise.  So  great 
was  his  exaltation,  so  mighty  his  sense  of  untried, 
undeveloped  faculties,  at  this  moment,  that  the  mar- 
vel seemed  even  small  to  him.  It  meant  but  the 
ordering  of  a  purpose ;  it  meant  but  a  turn  of  the 
will.  It  meant  that  the  allegiance,  the  adoration  of 
his  race,  were  his,  and  his  forever.  It  meant  that 
precious  thing,  —  of  all  the  ambitions  of  earth  or 
heaven  most  bewitching  to  a  Jewish  mind,  —  abso- 
lute recognition  as  their  Messiah.  It  meant  none 
the  less  a  devout  life  than  this  starvation  in  the 
desert,  nay,  rather,  meant  it  all  the  more.  It  meant 
the  most  godlike,  the  holiest  career  of  which  the 
Hebrew  imagination  could  conceive.  It  meant  the 
use  of  a  marvelous  power.  How?  Not  as  God 
directed ;  that  was  all.  Simply  not  as  the  Author 
of  all  Powers  did  ordain.  It  meant  putting  a  great 
gift  to  a  doubtful  exercise  ;  superseding  known  laws 
by  the  unknown,  to  gratify  paltry  curiosity  and  the 


92  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIS*! 

lowest  form  of  superstition.  It  meant  doing  as  he 
chose,  not  as  God  had  chosen.  Searching  in  him- 
self passionately  for  light  and  law,  he  found  but 
this :  that,  if  a  man  wished  to  do  the  will  of  God,  to 
him  it  should  be  made  known.  Was  it  The  Will 
that  he  should  capture  Jerusalem  by  a  great,  dra- 
matic exhibition  of  arts  such  as  an  Indian  occultist 
might  claim  to  practise  ?  To  become  the  King  of 
the  Jews,  should  he  suffer  himself  to  be  thought  the 
king  of  sorcerers  ?  God  was  mystery,  but  He  was 
not  magic.  The  dignity  in  Christ's  own  nature  re- 
volted from  this  view  of  his  position.  In  his  reac- 
tion from  his  momentary  moral  confusion,  so  near 
did  he  come  to  the  Invisible  that  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  Jehovah  himself  had  been  assaulted  in  his  own 
being ;  and,  rising  to  his  full  height,  and  crushing 
the  sharp  stones  beneath  his  bruised  feet,  he  apos- 
trophized the  whole  source  and  force  of  evil  as  if  it 
were  one  malicious  intelligence  : 

"  Thou  shalt  not  try  the  Lord  thy  God  !  " 
Every  temptation  needs  its  desert,  and  every 
desert  has  its  temptation.  The  true  nature  of  his 
moral  trial  now  began  to  suggest  itself  to  the  Naza- 
rene.  What  his  race  and  his  times  would  demand 
of  him  —  that  he  could  not  give.  What  he  had  the 
power  to  achieve  —  that  he  might  not  do.  It  came 
slowly  to  his  awed  and  gentle  thought  to  wonder  if 
he  had  been  mistaken  in  daring  to  suppose  that  he 
could  be  the  Anointed,  the  Chosen  of  his  people 
and  of  his  people's  God. 

The  very  opening  indications  of  his  mission  took 
on  the   character   of   an  error   into  which  he  had 


THE   WILDERNESS  93 

nearly  fallen,  an  abyss  into  which  he  had  all  but 
slipped  ;  as  he  might  slip  into  that  fissure  yonder 
below  the  mountains,  fifteen  hundred  feet  yawning 
down. 

With  his  unapproachable  humility,  his  royal  care- 
lessness of  self,  he  put  his  splendid  visions  by.  If 
he  might  not  be  the  Messiah  of  the  Jews,  he  could 
be  not  the  less  the  Son  of  God.  If  not  for  him 
the  sceptre  and  gems  and  the  purple  of  life,  he 
could  still  be  a  plain,  good  man,  doing  his  duty  in 
an  obscure  fashion  as  God  bade  him,  and  trust- 
ing Heaven  to  teach  him  what  and  where  it  was. 
With  this  simple  and  this  grand  resolve,  he  turned 
to  leave  the  desert,  and  to  seek  the  homely  and 
natural  presence  of  men. 

But  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  he  fell  fainting.  He 
had  come  to  the  end  of  his  strength,  and  uncon- 
sciousness compassionately  found  him  out  at  last. 

When  he  came  to  himself,  he  heard  in  the  dark 
the  movement  of  dim,  strange  forms,  stately  and 
merciful  as  his  most  cherished  dreams  of  the  strong- 
est angel  in  the  heavenly  world.  He  heard  inar- 
ticulate, brooding  sounds  of  tenderness  beyond  the 
tenderness  of  earth.  The  grasp  of  unseen  fingers 
touched  his  wasted  hands.  Vitality  that  had  never 
known  a  pang  or  weakness  flowed  through  the  clasp. 
So  the  spent  and  famished  man  was  comforted. 
And  day  dawned  upon  the  wilderness. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   FIRST   WONDERS 

WITH  the  humility  which  is  the  marked  feature 
of  true  greatness,  Jesus  came  back  from  the  wilder- 
ness into  the  world  of  self-seeking  men.  His  heart 
was  high,  but  his  hope  was  low  or  lowered.  His 
unique  and  solemn  experience  had  not  subdued  his 
ideals,  but  had  saddened  his  expectations.  Solitude, 
vigil,  hunger,  and  prayer  spoke  another  tongue  from 
the  language  of  the  people  of  affairs  or  the  men 
of  pleasure  who  looked  at  him  with  indifference  or 
with  curiosity  and  went  their  ways. 

An  impressive  scene  took  place  between  himself 
and  his  kinsman,  the  prophet,  who  sought  the  earli- 
est opportunity  to  reaffirm  the  first  recognition  of 
his  favorite  convert ;  but  Jesus  passed  through  this 
without  apparent  emotion.  His  mood  was  one  of 
divine  self-obliteration :  like  all  exalted  moods,  it 
carried  its  own  comfort  with  it ;  but  this  was  of  the 
kind  about  which  a  man  does  not  talk. 

He  became  strangely  incommunicative.  With  re- 
moteness he  approached  the  Ihrobbing  life  of  men. 
Gently  he  assumed  the  task  which  he  had  set  him- 
self,—  to  do  the  nearest  duty  in  the  noblest  way, 
and  trust  God  for  the  results. 

To  this  simple  purpose,  this  view  of  responsibility 


THE   FIRST  WONDERS  95 

so  elemental  that  the  weakest  soul  might  overlook 
it,  while  the  strongest  needed  all  his  strength  to 
perceive  in  it  the  materials  for  a  great  theory  of  life, 
he  began  to  adjust  himself. 

With  extraordinary  patience  he  sought  and  fol- 
lowed the  leadings  of  his  own  heart,  and  of  the 
heart  of  God  as  expressed  to  it  in  a  manner  incom- 
prehensible to  men  less  pure  and  docile  than  him- 
self. These  took  him  from  experiment  to  experiment 
in  the  interpretation  of  the  Divine  purpose  under 
which  he  had  intelligently  ranged  the  energies  of 
his  personal  will. 

He  pursued  at  first,  in  great  uncertainty,  an  ap- 
parently indecisive  course.  Those  bleak  weeks  in 
the  Jndean  desert  had  left  him  in  what  we  may  call  / 
a  glorified  perplexity.  He  had  come  out  of  it  sure^ 
of  little  except  of  his  own  motives.  These  had  es- 
caped from  trial  as  white  as  the  wings  of  a  flower 
set  free  by  the  wind  from  a  whorl  of  thorns.  He 
longed  to  justify  in  himself  his  own  favorite  ap- 
pellation of  the  Son  of  God.  This  had  become 
his  one  passionate  purpose.  He  could  bear  it  not 
to  be  the  Messiah ;  apparently  he  was  not  the  Mes- 
siah. 

Nothing  in  his  own  apprehension  of  himself  yet 
answered  to  the  popular  ideal  of  the  Jewish  hero. 
If  it  were  the  greatest  of  his  moral  struggles  not 
to  be  deluded  with  this  idea,  he  had  achieved  it.  If 
it  were  the  subtlest  of  his  moral  perils  to  mistake  a 
call  from  Heaven  for  a  delusion  and  a  fantasy,  he 
had  not  yet  evaded  it. 

He  found  in  himself  no  easier  way  to  detect  truth 


96  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

than  the  old,  plain  way  which  common  men  with 
uncommon  consciences  have  always  known  and  fol- 
-  lowed.  He  did  the  thing  that  he  was  sure  was  right, 
and  let  the  doubtful  go.  He  could  bear  it  not  to  be 
the  Messiah  of  his  people.  He  could  not  bear  it  not 
to  be  the  Son  of  his  God. 

Pathetic  at  this  time  were  the  exaltations  and  de- 
pressions of  his  mood,  and  the  flickerings  of  his 
illumination,  —  brighter  to-day,  darker  to-morrow ; 
never  quite  steady  enough  to  sustain  in  him  a  joyous 
assurance  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  He  entered 
upon  his  career  under  the  full  human  disability 
which  makes  it  the  hardest  thing  in  the  early  lives 
of  great  men  that  they  do  not  know  whether  they 
are  great  or  not. 

Silent,  pallid,  wasted  from  famine,  glorified  by 
prayer,  he  stood  in  his  desert  -  stained  garments 
among  the  little  group  that,  headed  by  his  cousin, 
met  him  when  he  strode  back  through  the  river- 
reeds  to  the  bank  of  Jordan.  Dreamily  he  heard 
the  solemn  apostrophe  of  John.  Was  his  enthusi- 
astic kinsman  right?  Was  he  wrong?  How  could 
John  —  or  Jesus  —  know  ?  More  perplexed  than 
elated,  Jesus  watched  the  movements  of  the  young 
prophet's  favorite  penitents,  two  or  three  of  whom 
left  their  old  master  and  impulsively  offered  to  him- 
self their  definite  allegiance,  after  the  manner  of 
Eastern  pupils,  or  followers  of  a  popular  teacher. 
But  this  humble  man,  thinking  so  little  of  himself 
and  so  much  of  God,  was  more  troubled  than  flat- 
tered when  he  saw  those  eager  Hebrew  faces  lifted 
to  his  own  in  the  first  light  of  personal  idealization. 


THE   FIRST   WONDERS  97 

His  surprise  flushed  delicately  all  over  his  noble 
countenance. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  said  with  beautiful  nai'vete.  "  What 
seek  ye  ?  " 

This  was  not  the  regal  assumption  which  was  ex- 
pected of  him,  and  significant  looks  of  doubt  and 
disapproval  passed  among  the  people.  But  the  fol- 
lowers of  John,  who  had  been  trained  not  to  take 
the  low  or  even  the  middling  view  of  things,  were 
not  rebuffed  by  the  honesty  of  a  reply  that  might 
easily  have  cost  Jesus  his  first  friends,  and  hence 
perhaps  the  rest  of  his  coterie.  This  touched  and 
pleased  him. 

Encouraged  and  stimulated  by  the  little  sign  of 
public  favor,  or  of  heavenly  preference  (he  found 
nothing  yet  to  make  it  clear  to  him  whether  these 
two  things  were  twain  or  one),  he  rose  from  his 
depression  into  a  happy,  hopeful  mood.  In  its  first 
energy  he  took  heart  to  invite  a  few  other  men  to 
add  themselves  to  the  small  number  of  his  friends. 
Out  of  these  modest  beginnings  his  following  grew. 
In  the  fashion  of  the  times,  his  personal  adherents 
went  by  the  name  of  disciples.  They  were  plain 
men,  many  of  them  fishermen,  men  of  the  carpen- 
ter's own  social  rank,  or  somewhat  below  it.  The\ 
upper  classes  did  not  concern  themselves  at  this  ) 
time  with  the  young  devotee. 

A  small  Galilean  town,  quite  unimportant  in  its 
day,  scarcely  more  than  a  hamlet,  has  acquired  im- 
mortal renown  for  one  single  entertainment  in  its 
local  society.  To  one  Jewish  bride,  —  a  mere  girl, 


98  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

almost  a  child  let  us  think,  a  pretty,  innocent  crea- 
ture, shrinking  in  her  long  betrothal  veil,  her  little 
head  filled  with  the  fit  of  her  wreath  of  gilded 
myrtle  leaves,  or  the  style  of  her  wedding  girdle, 
—  to  that  limited,  childish  mind,  occupied  with  the 
sole  importance  of  getting  married,  did  any  power 
whisper  that  hers  should  be  the  most  famous  wed- 
ding in  history  ? 

It  was  a  Wednesday,  the  day  of  the  week  when 
Jewish  maidens  might  marry.  It  was  a  house  of 
some  degree.  The  family  were  people  of  position. 
Guests  and  gifts  were  many.  The  large  reception- 
room  was  full.  The  servants  ran  to  and  fro.  All 
the  relatives  were  there,  poor  and  well-to-do  alike. 
Great  water-jars  holding  five  and  a  half  gallons 
apiece,  stood  ranged  by  the  door  in  the  court,  the 
usual  fresh  leaves  floating  on  the  top.  The  guest, 
taking  off  his  sandals  and  bathing  his  feet,  entered 
the  house  barefooted,  and  stepping  without  sound 
upon  the  large  rugs  which  carpeted  the  dining-hall. 
The  couches  and  cushions  were  comfortable;  the 
feast  was  generous.  Everything  was,  everything 
must  be  provided  with  lavish  Oriental  hospitality. 
The  bride's  heart  throbbed  with  pride  and  fear  and 

i°y- 

A  group  of  belated  guests,  coming  up  the  dusty 
pathway  to  the  house,  attracted  her  giddy  and  waver- 
ing attention.  They  were  six  in  number,  quite  ordi- 
nary-looking persons,  unless  one  excepted  their  leader, 
a  young  man  with  a  fine  mien,  who  approached  the 
courtyard  with  the  manner  of  an  invited  guest,  and 
seemed  to  expect  admission  for  his  five  companions. 


THE   FIRST   WONDERS  99 

The  maiden  recognized  him  for  one  of  the  kinsfolk 
with  whom  she  did  not  feel  acquainted,  and  won- 
dered why  he  had  not  arrived  with  his  mother,  who 
was  already  among  the  company,  or  why,  indeed, 
he  must  needs  appear  in  this  extraordinary  way, 
with  a  following  of  unfashionable  strangers.  Dimly 
through  her  thick  veil  she  saw  his  face  and  figure  ; 
he  seemed  to  swim  a  little  before  her  gaze,  like  some 
strange  sight  seen  afar  off,  on  clouds  or  in  light,  on 
water  or  in  mist.  She  watched  him  till  he  disap- 
peared in  the  court  among  the  wedding  company, 
and  thought  of  him  no  more  just  then. 

From  the  desert  to  the  wedding  party  what  a  revo- 
lution of  the  horoscope !  But  that  is  life,  and  Jesus 
lived.  He  had  accepted  the  invitation  to  the  mar- 
riage of  his  young  kinswoman :  his  mother  was  to 
be  there,  and  his  brothers ;  it  was  the  natural,  social 
duty  of  the  week  ;  he  was  no  hermit,  and  he  per- 
formed it  as  a  matter  of  course.  His  new  friends 
followed  him,  —  fishermen  from  Bethsaida,  and  a 
neighbor  or  acquaintance  of  theirs :  he  could  not 
turn  them  off ;  they  clung  to  him  with  the  beauti- 
ful tenderness  of  a  dawning  affection.  Already  he 
found  himself  in  the  attitude  of  a  traveling  rabbi : 
the  new  dignities  of  the  position  must  be  respected ; 
the  new  movements  of  his  own  nature  made  them- 
selves not  turbulently  but  timidly  felt.  A  few 
strange  things  had  happened  to  him.  Stranger 
were  whispered  of  him  under  the  breath  of  a  few 
reflective  and  receptive  persons.  One  man  had  ad- 
dressed him  impulsively  in  startling  terms :  "  Thou 
art  the  Kino-  of  Israel ! "  The  soul  of  Jesus 


100  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

vibrated  like  a  too  responsive  harp  beneath  these 
touches.  What  did  they  mean?  He  could  not  tell 
himself,  much  less  another.  He  could  but  seek  the 
duties  of  a  conscientious  man  and  do  them.  To 
attend  this  wedding  was  plainly  one  of  them.  He 
entered  the  boisterous  Eastern  marriage  party  qui- 
etly. Something  in  his  appearance  attracted  atten- 
tion. The  rude  jests,  not  uncommon  at  such  merry- 
makings, slunk  away  like  vermin  in  his  presence. 
One  fellow,  who  had  spoken  too  freely,  tried  to  meet 
the  eye  of  the  Nazarene  and  brave  it  out,  but  could 
not,  and  hung  his  head. 

Jesus  moved  among  the  guests  with  a  gentle  cheer- 
fulness. His  mother  was  watching  for  him ;  she 
took  him  apart  for  a  moment  with  yearning  eyes. 
For  seven  weeks  she  had  not  seen  him.  Her  heart 
hungered  for  him,  and  his  —  did  his  for  her  ?  He 
met  her  lovingly,  but  his  mien  was  changed.  How 
haggard  he  was !  She  questioned  him  anxiously. 
He  looked  like  a  man  half-starved  and  wholly  preoc- 
cupied. He  did  not  talk  about  the  desert,  or  of  what 
had  happened  there.  He  answered  her  troubled 
look  with  one  of  reassuring  peace.  She  sighed  and 
turned  away.  Mary  was  not  the  woman  to  nag  a 
grown  son  even  with  her  tenderness.  Yet  was  she 
a  mother,  and  one  accustomed  to  be  obeyed. 

On  a  later  day  of  the  prolonged  festivities  she 
sought  him  with  some  imperiousness  of  manner. 
One  of  the  servants  followed  her,  for  she  had  the 
authority  of  a  relative  in  charge  of  the  occasion,  and 
respectfully  awaited  her  orders.  Mary  called  her 
son  aside,  and  revealed  to  him  in  troubled  feminiiu> 


THE  FIRST   WONDERS  101 

whispers  the  great  disaster  which  had  befallen  the 
household.  What  could  be  worse  than  for  the  wine 
to  give  out  before  the  entertainment  was  over  ?  It 
was  no  less  than  a  family  scandal !  She  tried  to 
impress  it  on  his  mind  as  such.  Jesus  looked  at  her 
with  distant  eyes.  It  seemed  a  small  matter  to  him. 
But  it  was  large  to  her,  to  the  host,  to  the  bride, 
to  all  those  relatives  whom  a  man  must  treat  consid- 
erately, though  they  seem  less  kin  to  him  than  the 
red  fox  that  had  crept  to  his  feet  in  the  desert  one 
stormy  night,  or  the  thrush  that  had  sung  to  him  one 
sleepless  morning  when  he  lay  prone  and  famished 
on  the  rock.  He  listened  to  his  mother  deferentially. 

With  the  candor  of  a  mother  she  felt  obliged  to 
remind  him  of  a  circumstance  which  in  his  abstrac- 
tion he  was  likely  to  overlook.  The  wine  had  given 
out,  partly  because  five  unexpected  guests  had  ar- 
rived on  the  scene,  — dusty,  hearty,  thirsty  men,  who 
had  traveled  for  several  days  on  foot ;  plain  men 
who  were  not  any  too  much  accustomed  to  society 
like  this,  and  who  had  taken  their  share  of  entertain- 
ment to  do  honor  to  it.  In  fact,  was  it  a  little  ques- 
tionable to  have  brought  these  fishermen  at  all  into 
the  presence  of  such  a  company  ?  At  all  events,  was 
Jesus  personally  wholly  without  responsibility  for 
the  family  misfortune  ? 

With  his  quick  delicacy  he  perceived  the  force  of 
the  situation  ;  he  was  no  uncouth  dreamer,  obtuse  to 
the  courtesies  of  life  :  he  readily  acquiesced  in  his 
mother's  view  of  the  case  up  to  a  certain  point. 
Beyond  that,  he  drew  suddenly  and  strangely  apart 
from  her  and  from  it. 


102  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

What  did  Mary  expect  or  exact  of  him  ?  What 
blind  though  adoring  dreams  drifted  through  her 
imagination  ?  Did  she  dictate  to  unnamed  gifts 
whose  nature  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  under- 
stand? 

Did  she  require  of  him  obedience  as  a  son  in  a 
province  where  he  owed  obedience  to  110  created 
being?  Was  he  to  enter  upon  a  life  of  unknown 
possibilities  fettered  to  the  loving  surveillance  of  a 
woman  whose  very  love  would  thwart  and  perplex 
him  at  every  step  ?  The  vague,  rising  sense  of  some- 
thing in  himself  not  like  other  men  was  vague  in  one 
respect  at  no  time,  either  then  or  after.  One  Being, 
and  one  only,  was  or  could  be  Law  to  him.  Who 
was  Mary,  though  the  loveliest  of  mortal  mothers, 
that  she  should  obtrude  upon  him  her  own  views  of 
a  mystery  which  rested  between  his  Creator  and 
himself  ? 

Gently  putting  his  mother  aside,  he  said  in  Ara- 
maic that  here  was  a  matter  which  was  not  a  proper 
topic  of  discussion  between  them. 

"  I  waive  the  subject.  It  is  not  for  thee  and  me 
to  dwell  on.  Let  us  not  talk  about  the  thing." 

Then,  troubled  a  little  lest  he  might  grieve  the 
tenderest  of  women,  — troubled  more  within  himself 
as  to  the  nature  of  his  power  or  of  his  privilege,  — 
half  repenting,  he  offered  her  his  confidence,  as  much 
of  it  as  he  could,  with  quick,  beautiful  filial  trust. 

"  Mine  hour,"  he  whispered,  "  is  not  yet  come. 
Leave  me  to  myself  till  mine  hour  cometh." 

He  stepped  apart,  and  brooded  over  the  thing. 
What  a  little  thing !  What  a  petty  use  to  which  to 


THE   FIRST  WONDERS  103 

put  a  great  power  !  —  if  that  were  power  which  he 
felt  within  himself,  stirring  and  struggling  for  em- 
bodiment in  deeds.  His  eyes  fastened  themselves 
upon  the  water-jars,  six  of  them,  ranged  by  the  door- 
way, tall  and  cool.  The  water  in  them  was  low,  and 
the  herbs  hung  limp  at  the  bottom,  like  weeds,  or 
the  beginning  of  growth  in  damp  places. 

He  thought  of  the  long  processes  of  nature,  slow 
and  still,  secluded  from  the  comprehension  of  human- 
ity like  other  higher  processes  which  were  unrecog- 
nized by  it ;  of  the  seed  in  the  mould,  the  root  in  the 
earth,  the  sprout  in  the  air,  the  dawn  on  the  leaf,  the 
pollen  on  the  blossom,  the  sun  on  the  fruit;  and 
always  the  wet  on  all :  mist,  moisture,  dew,  gentle 
dropping,  drenching  storm,  sudden  shower,  long, 
spring  rain,  —  always  water  as  the  means  of  growth, 
and  at  the  end,  and  as  the  end,  the  vine,  the  grape, 
the  wine.  There  glittered  before  him  the  sparkle  of 
the  wine  of  life,  the  social  joys  of  men,  their  love  of 
wife  and  child  and  home,  and  their  innocent  happi- 
ness, common,  warm,  and  good  ;  all  the  purer,  better 
side  of  human  rapture, — not  for  him,  never  for 
him. 

To  other  men  should  come  the  joy  of  having  hap- 
piness, to  him  the  joy  of  giving  it.  Doomed,  as  he 
already  felt  himself,  to  be  their  critic,  their  teacher 
(to  say  110  more),  his  loving  heart  rose  easily  to  the 
opportunity  of  bestowing  pleasure.  Fated,  as  he 
early  knew  himself,  to  a  solitary  life,  his  delicate 
instincts  floated  like  winged  servitors  at  the  thresh- 
old of  wedded  joy. 

Then  he  remembered  that  there  was  a  public  view 
of  this  private,  social  deed. 


104  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

His  new  friends  stood  looking  anxiously  at  him. 
The  lake  fishermen  whispered  among  themselves 
significantly. 

His  mother,  standing  in  the  background  of  the 
scene  where  he  had  placed  her,  watched  him  with 
luminous,  trustful  eyes.  The  servants  buzzed  about, 
officiously  awaiting  his  orders.  The  chatter  of  the 
guests  drove  by  in  gusts.  The  bridesmaids  were 
singing  a  Jewish  bridal  song  : 

"  Her  eyelids  are  not  stained  with  blue, 

Her  red  cheeks  are  her  own, 
Her  hair  hangs  waving1  as  it  grew, 
Her  grace  were  wealth  alone." 

Was  this  the  time,  the  place,  the  sufficient  reason, 
for  that  ?  —  for  that  strange  indwelling,  that  mys- 
tical gift  whose  scope  or  depth  as  yet  he  could  not 
guess  ?  Would  The  Source  of  all  Power  be  troubled 
with  such  a  matter?  Was  it  The  Will?  ...  Try! 
Put  forth  the  hand,  the  heart,  the  mind,  the  prayer, 
the  being! 

"  Fill  the  water-pots  with  fresh  water.  Carry  it, 
<ind  offer  it  to  drink." 

These  words  they  heard  who  stood  near  the  young 
Rabbi,  and  they  saw  that  he  trembled  as  he  spoke 
them,  as  a  man  might  who  stood  partly  in  doubt,  or 
partly  in  fear  of  his  own  audacity  in  an  untried 
direction.  There  were  unspoken  words  that  no  man 
heard. 

"Thou  water,  that  art  the  source  of  life,  the 
secret  of  growth,  the  food  of  the  blossom  and  the 
fruit,  the  essence  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky,  the  ma- 
trix of  creation,  thou  purer  and  mightier  than  the 


THE   FIRST  WONDERS  105 

blood  of  the  vine,  return  upon  the  steps  of  law  ! 
Omit,  be  haste,  be  force,  be  season,  be  blossom,  lx> 
vine,  be  sap,  be  grape,  be  wine  !  Such  is  The  Will. 
Obey." 

Everybody  was  talking  of  the  marvel.  But  he. 
being  overstrained  with  it,  tried  to  take  himself 
away.  He  seemed,  indeed,  more  exhausted  than  it 
was  easy  to  explain. 

The  literal  imaginations  of  his  friends  followed 
him  with  dull  admiration.  The  fishermen  clung  to 
him,  and  refused  him  a  moment's  solitude.  It  was 
impossible  to  understand  that  a  man  who  could  do 
the  deed  could  need  recuperation  after  it !  His 
mother  reverently  kissed  the  edge  of  his  talith.  She 
had  never  touched  him  so  in  all  her  life  before. 
The  servants  pointed  at  him,  gossiping  volubly. 
The  host  and  the  chief  officer  of  the  feast  jested 
about  the  wine.  The  guests  drank  deeply  of  it. 

The  bride,  among  her  maidens,  tasted  it,  wonder- 
ing as  she  heard  the  story.  Strangers  crowded  up 
to  ask,  to  doubt,  or  to  believe.  Important  func- 
tionaries of  the  church  scowled  over  the  thing.  A 
hubbub  set  in  upon  the  wedding  party.  For  an 
hour  it  seemed  quite  doubtful  whether  the  young 
Rabbi  were  likely  to  be  most  popular  or  most  un- 
popular because  of  it. 

He  did  not  wait  to  see,  but  resolutely  turned 
away.  His  own  soul  was  as  much  perturbed  as 
elated.  So  it  was  true,  —  it  was  real ;  he  could 
never  say  to  himself  again  that  those  were  the  hallu- 
cinations of  a  starving  brain  which  mocked  him  in 
the  desert.  Some  one  had  brought  him  a  cup  and 
he  tremulously  put  his  lips  to  it. 


106  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

"  It  was  water.  It  is  wine."  The  fact  gave  him 
almost  as  much  trouble  as  pleasure  for  that  first 
hour.  What  should  he  do  with  it?  Where  would 
it  end? 

He  longed  exceedingly  to  be  alone.  But  the  fish- 
ermen followed  him  closely,  chatting  as  their  large 
feet  dragged  the  sand  clumsily  over  his  slenderer 
footprints. 

.Broken,  experimental,  anxious,  patient,  the  months 
of  that  year  succeeded  each  other  humbly.  For 
nearly  half  of  it,  no  record  tells  us  how  this  invalu- 
able time  in  the  opening  of  a  great  career  was 
passed.  It  has  well  been  called  The  Year  of  Ob- 
scurity. Jesus  had  the  rare  power  of  happily  ac- 
cepting obscurity  when  he  felt  himself  capable  of 
eminence.  Whether  to  be  distinguished  or  to  be 
unknown,  —  that  was  not  important  to  his  view  of 
life.  His  mind  lay  like  a  burning-glass  scorching 
beneath  one  thought :  "  I  will  find  out  what  and  who 
I  am ;  I  will  learn  what  I  am  to  do,  and  how  I  am 
to  do  it." 

In  rays  illumination  visited  him.  At  moments 
his  soul  smoked  and  took  fire  with  its  sense  of  blind- 
ing light.  The  power  in  him  would  not  always 
down. 

All  his  touching  gentleness,  his  modest  estimate 
of  himself,  could  not  extinguish  it.  It  flashed  up 
in  jets  of  brief,  passionate  scenes,  now  and  then 
burning  through  the  dull  lens  of  that  year  of  prepa- 
ration for  a  broader  and  more  positive  life. 


THE   FIRST  WONDERS  107 

It  was  Jerusalem  and  the  Temple ;  and  he  stood, 
in  the  first  thoughtfulness  of  his  young  manhood, 
among  the  phantasmagoria  of  Passover  week,  for 
he  seemed  to  himself,  in  such  a  panorama,  but  a 
phantom  among  the  shades  of  a  mad  world.  Half 
of  what  he  saw  distressed  him,  and  the  rest  inspired. 
He  shrank,  as  he  had  always  done,  from  the  sacred 
butchery  of  worship.  He  pitied  the  lambs  so,  that 
he  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  the  priests. 

The  fishermen  and  the  strangers  who  clung  to 
him  were  clamoring  for  what  they  called  miracles 
(for  the  thing  that  he  had  done  at  Cana  had  fol- 
lowed him  like  his  disciples  ever  since),  but  he  dis- 
tanced them  by  an  appeal  of  his  hand,  and  moved 
away  alone.  He  approached  the  sacred  veil  with 
the  emotion  of  a  devout  worshiper.  Tears  sprang 
to  his  eyes  when  he  bowed  before  the  Ark ;  for  the 
Holy  of  Holies  lay  within  his  own  heart,  and  all  his 
nature  was  a  prayer. 

Crowding  about  him,  his  people  slew  dumb  things 
to  pay  Heaven  a  price  for  their  sins.  He  sought 
for  guilt  in  himself.  What  was  it  ?  What  did  it 
mean?  How  should  a  man  sin?  How  could  a 
child  of  God  distress  his  Father?  It  was  impos- 
sible to  grasp  the  consciousness  of  it !  He  slaugh- 
tered no  lamb  to  burn  upon  any  altar,  —  he  could 
not  do  it.  But  at  that  solemn  Passover,  the  first  of 
his  sad,  grand  manhood,  he  offered  and  consumed 
himself. 

"  I  shall  be  the  Sacrifice,"  he  thought. 

Filled  with  incommunicable  emotion,  he  passed 
out  of  the  inner  Temple,  and  came  suddenly  upon  a 


108  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

raving  scene.  The  brokers  !  —  they  had  possession 
of  the  outer  courts,  and  the  air  resounded  with  their 
greedy  roars.  People  from  all  parts  of  the  world 
crowded  up,  gesticulating,  haranguing,  bargaining, 
changing  the  coin  of  all  nations  for  the  currency 
that  might  be  accepted  in  the  Jewish  Temple,  hag- 
gling for  the  sheep,  the  oxen,  and  the  doves  to  slay. 
The  sacred  spot  rang  with  the  rage  of  a  wild  ex- 
change. The  vulgarity,  the  desecration,  the  hideous- 
ness,  were  more  than  the  Nazarene  could  bear.  The 
whole  sight  flared  like  blasphemy  before  his  blazing- 
eyes,  yet  moist  as  they  were  with  the  dew  of  prayer 
and  consecration.  Instantly  the  meek  worshiper 
towered  into  an  outraged  God.  A  little,  unnoticed 
cord  (it  had  been  used  to  bind  some  butchered 
thing)  was  lying  near  by ;  it  twisted  for  a  moment 
in  his  nervous  fingers',  then  it  uncoiled  from  his 
hand,  like  a  snake,  and  leaped.  He  rose  to  a  majes- 
tic height.  His  mien  was  something  for  that  mo- 
ment awful  to  look  upon.  Lashing  and  pursuing, 
he  strode  down.  The  swish  of  the  cord  hissed  in 
the  air,  but  sharper  the  accents  of  his  scorn. 
"  God's  house  —  your  den  !  Ye  thieves  !  " 
Thus  rang  from  the  lips  of  Jesus  his  first  protest 
against  the  ecclesiastical  abuses  of  his  day.  And 
then  was  born  against  him  the  demon  of  a  grudge,  one 
of  those  silent,  venomous  hatreds  which  bring  down 
a  day  of  inevitable  reckoning  upon  any  man  who 
arouses  them.  From  the  Temple  booths  the  High 
Priest's  family  is  said  to  have  received  enormous 
revenues,  and  from  that  hour  the  sullen  eye  of 
Annas  singled  out  the  Nazarene. 


THE   FIRST  WONDERS  109 

But,  for  the  moment,  the  brokers  slunk  away  like 
beaten  curs.  Not  a  hand  was  raised  against  him ; 
they  so  many,  he  but  one.  The  scattered  coins  lay 
trampled  under  fleeing  feet.  No  man  stayed  to  pick 
up  the  money. 

He  stood  alone,  quivering.  There  ran  from  him 
a  medley  of  scattering  animals  and  cringing  men. 
The  look  of  his  eyes  sprang  after  them-  like  flames 
of  holy  fire. 

He  stood  untroubled,  undefiled,  as  God  might 
stand  behind  the  judgment  bar,  —  as  fearless  and 
as  solitary.  At  that  moment  his  sense  of  power 
flooded  his  being. 

The  great  Temple  rose  behind  him,  gorgeous,  in- 
tricate, a  marvel  of  architecture,  forty  and  six  years 
in  building. 

"  Destroy  it !  "  he  cried,  carried  on  a  wave  of  glo- 
rified assurance  stronger  than  he  had  ever  known ; 
"  I  will  build  it  in  three  days  !  " 

It  was  in  Samaria,  and  he  was  traveling.  He 
spent  the  dull  intervals  between  the  few  brilliant 
moments  of  that  year  in  the  commonplace  duties  of 
an  itinerant  teacher.  A  preacher  he  had  not  yet 
presumed  to  be. 

With  characteristic  modesty  he  had  refrained 
from  any  appearance  of  rivalry  with  the  career  of 
the  prophet  from  whom  he  had  accepted  religious  in- 
itiation. He  had  gone  on  quietly,  for  the  most  part 
practicing  the  methods  of  John  as  he  had  studied 
them.  To  his  few  followers  he  delegated  certain  im- 
portant religious  functions ;  among  others,  that  of 
performing  the  rite  of  baptism. 


110  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

He  taught  and  prayed  and  exhorted.  Now  and 
then  into  the  routine  of  his  obscure  service  some- 
thing wonderful  crept.  There  were  tales  and  rumors 
of  bountiful  movements  of  his  heart  resulting  in 
strange  consequences.  But  chiefly  he  had  been 
leading  the  ordinary  life  of  a  humble  evangelist. 
His  methods  were  intensely  practical.  He  denounced 
sin  and  urged  repentance ;  he  gave  himself  up  for 
this  year  to  the  most  unwelcome  of  human  tasks, 
—  that  of  starting  in  a  community  or  a  people  the 
consciousness  of  their  moral  degradation  without  tak- 
ing advantage  of  it  to  place  hi m self  in  a  position  of 
very  great  prominence  or  spiritual  ascendency  over 
them.  His  own  soul  at  this  time  was  a  sleeping 
mine.  He  had  the  great  forces  of  reserve,  of  self- 
abeyance,  of  that  which  can  bide  its  time.  His 
future,  the  fate  of  his  nation,  the  hope  of  the  world, 
lay  staked  upon  his  silence,  his  submission,  his  wil- 
lingness to  be  unknown  and  unsuccessful,  his  power 
to  exchange  a  warm  and  splendid  dream  for  a  chill 
and  gray  reality. 

The  cool  of  the  day  was  coming  on.  He  was  very 
tired.  His  friends  had  left  him  for  a  while ;  they 
were  seeking  food  for  him  and  for  themselves  in 
the  town  chosen  for  their  night's  lodging,  —  Sychar 
by  name.  Grateful  to  be  alone,  as  he  always 
seemed,  or  was,  he  sank  wearily  by  the  deep  rock- 
cut  well,  and  lifted  his  face  to  the  west.  It  was 
a  historic  well,  famous  from  ancient  times  as  the 
property  of  a  distinguished  family ;  no  less  a  one 
than  that  of  the  founders  of  the  race. 


THE   FIRST   WONDERS  111 

The  sunset  was  falling  from  glory  to  tenderness, 
and  all  its  colors  were  mild.  Something  soothing  in 
their  tone  crept  from  the  sky  to  his  heart. 

The  interrogation  of  his  own  nature  which  went 
on  in  him  steadily  through  depression  and  elation, 
receiving  uneven  replies,  but  never  abandoned  be- 
cause these  might  be  faint  or  discouraging,  spoke  to 
him  then  with  the  movement  of  a  rising  cry. 

His  head  was  turned  in  the  attitude  of  one  who 
listens  to  that  which  no  man  else  can  hear.  His 
large  eyes  were  fastened  upon  the  dying  day,  whose 
luminousness  seemed  to  have  entered  into  and  re- 
mained in  them  after  it  had  left  the  clouds. 

He  was  so  absorbed  that  the  movement  of  a  wo- 
man's robe  near  him  did  not  arouse  his  attention,  or 
did  not  seem  to  do  so. 

She  glanced  up  lightly,  then  quite  gravely  looked 
at  him.  The  tinkling  of  a  bangle  on  her  brow 
seemed  to  embarrass  her,  as  if  it  were  an  obtrusion 
on  a  silence  meant  for  better  things,  and  impul- 
sively she  drew  her  hand  over  the  clanking  coins  of 
gold  and  silver  and  hushed  the  flippant  sound.  She 
had  set  down  her  water-jar  to  do  this,  and  stood  at 
the  edge  of  the  well  with  both  beautiful  arms  free. 
They  were  bared  and  she  was  unveiled. 

The  traveler  did  not  look  at  her,  and  she  bent  to 
draw  the  water  with  which  to  fill  her  jar.  The 
silence  was  not  oppressive  to  her,  for  it  was  natural 
and  expected.  The  stranger  was  plainly  a  Jew,  and 
with  her  people  the  Jews  were  not  on  social  terms. 
To  women  of  her  kind  (as  she  perceived  with  the 
keenness  and  swiftness  of  her  class),  this  man  per- 


112  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

sonally  was  not  in  any  event  liable  to  lower  himself 
by  passing  the  commonest  salutation  of  the  day. 
That  he  should  ignore  her  was  a  matter  of  course. 
Her  astonishment  began  when  he  spoke. 

"  Give  me  to  drink,"  he  said  gently.  His  voice 
sounded  far  removed  from  her,  though  he  was  so 
near.  He  did  not  turn  his  head,  nor  detain  his  eyes 
from  the  darkening  sky,  but  the  words  flowed  out 
like '  the  current  of  an  unseen  river  bathing  the 
shores  of  an  unknown  world. 

She  stood  staring.  Then  he  turned  and  looked 
her  full  in  the  eye.  She  was  a  voluble  creature,  and 
exclamations,  amazement,  questions,  tumbled  over 
each  other.  He  continued  to  look  at  her  silently. 
Then  her  own  eyes  dropped.  When  he  saw  this, 
he  began  to  talk  with  her. 

As  they  conversed  affably  and  earnestly  —  he  a 
young  Rabbi  with  a  position  to  maintain,  she  a  wo- 
man to  have  speech  with  whom  was  enough  to  cost 
him  his  reputation  —  the  emotion  in  his  own  heart 
rose  high.  Carried  upon  it,  he  floated  above  her 
low  history.  He  confronted  her  with  its  episodes, 
necessarily  unknown  to  him,  a  stranger.  He  re- 
buked her  for  them  boldly.  Yet  did  he  take  the 
pains  to  reason  with  her,  and  allure  her  to  a  better 
view  of  life.  With  the  respect  for  womanhood 
which  was  marked  in  him,  he  ingeniously  aroused 
her  own  lost  sense  of  modesty.  It  was  a  delicate 
task  —  not  a  great  one,  as  the  world  looks  at  moral 
achievements  —  to  restore  self-respect  to  a  woman 
who  had  thought  herself  below  it ;  but  the  soul  of 
Jesus  climbed  on  this  rude  pathway  to  a  far,  fine 


THE  FIRST  WONDERS  113 

height.  His  breath  came  fast,  like  that  of  a  moun- 
tain traveler  in  an  altitude  too  high  for  ordinary 
respiration.  Vision  and  prayer  blended  and  sepa- 
rated and  met  again.  His  eye  glowed  gravely. 
His  pale,  dark  cheek  lost  its  faint  tinge  of  color. 
His  troubled  consciousness,  for  months  past  surging 
to  and  fro  within  him  like  a  tide  whose  moon  did 
not  reveal  herself  by  fixed  expression,  took  to  it- 
self one  of  the  movements  which  surpassed  all  com- 
mon laws. 

"  I  know,  sir,  that  when  the  Messiah  comes  "  — 
The  word,  over  which  his  mind  and  heart  had  grown 
so  sore  and  anxious  for  so  long,  fell  low  from  the 
lips  of  the  woman,  spoken  softly  between  her  sobs. 

But  Jesus,  when  he  heard  it,  rose  to  his  feet.  His 
full  height  stood  against  the  west.  His  soul's  height 
rose  with  it.  The  truth  which  so  often  eluded  him 
radiated  from  his  eye,  his  smile,  his  brow,  his  out- 
stretched hands. 

"  I,"  he  said,  «  am  He." 

His  exaltation  had  not  departed  from  him  when 
his  friends  returned.  It  so  shone  upon  him  that 
no  man  of  them  dared  trouble  him.  They  stared 
at  the  woman  with  dismay,  but  no  one  obtruded  a 
question  on  his  breach  of  etiquette.  He  seemed 
grand  enough  to  be  the  master  of  all  customs,  the 
maker  of  all  laws.  Every  petty  thought  or  foolish 
query  went  down  before  his  look.  Affectionately 
they  begged  him  to  take  food,  for  a  man  may  not 
live  on  ecstasy. 

But  he  motioned  them  away  with  these  to  them 
mysterious,  and  to  all  men  matchless,  words :  "I 


114  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

have  meat  to  eat.  Ye  know  not  of  it.  ...  My  meat 
is  to  do  His  Will." 

Then,  for  his  heart  and  his  lips  were  freed,  he 
broke  into  a  strain  of  commanding  address,  assum- 
ing for  that  hour  his  oratorical  and  his  spiritual 
rank.  It  captured  the  village.  Hospitality  was 
pressed  upon  him.  Gratified,  he  accepted  it  for  a 
few  days.  He  was  startled  when  it  was  reported 
to  him  that  the  citizens,  gathering  about  the  poor 
woman  and  treating  her  with  the  respect  due  to  a 
despised  person  who  had  been  suddenly  subject  to 
the  notice  of  a  revered  one,  had  called  him  by  the 
most  solemn  appellation  that  the  lip  of  man  could 
utter,  or  the  mind  of  man  conceive : 

"  The  Christ ;  the  Saviour  of  the  World." 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  HIS   OWN   COUNTRY 

KNOWLEDGE  of  disaster  then,  as  ever,  found 
wings.  In  spite  of  the  leisurely  movement  of  news 
which  our  electric  civilization  lacks  the  imagination 
to  appreciate,  the  fact  of  a  great  public  and  personal 
trouble  quickly  reached  the  ears  of  Jesus. 

John,  the  prophet  and  preacher,  had  met  his 
natural  fate.  This  young  zealot  had  followed  his 
grand  sense  of  duty  one  step  too  far.  He  had 
meddled  with  the  vices  of  the  throne,  and  the 
throne  had  replied.  For  the  sake  of  denouncing  a 
royal  amour,  dignified  by  the  illegal  name  of  mar- 
riage, John  had  sacrificed  his  liberty  and  was  to 
sacrifice  his  life.  It  may  seem  doubtful  to  us  if 
this  fearless  deed  were  quite  worth  while,  but  it  did 
not  seem  doubtful  to  him  who  did  it.  The  brave 
man,  the  freest  of  all  his  class,  an  out-of-door  philo-  ^\ 
sopher,  accustomed  to  the  weather  and  the  sky,  to 
sleeping  on  the  ground,  to  eating  with  the  wild  bees 
at  their  own  carved  tables  ;  a  strong  and  steady 
walker,  dependent  on  exercise  and  air,  and  on  the 
liberty  of  his  own  mental  and  muscular  moods,  lan- 
guished in  the  dungeons  of  Herod  —  to  any  man 
an  unspeakable  fate ;  to  him,  of  all  men,  one  of  the 
worst. 


116  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

How  far  did  the  prophetic  gift  accompany  him  in 
that  dark  and  noisome  suspense  ?  One  may  hope 
that  it  mercifully  failed  him  a  little  then  and  there. 
Did  the  windows  of  the  approaching  future  open 
and  show  him  the  dizzy  scene  of  a  splendid  enter- 
tainment in  the  palace  one  hot,  bright  night  ?  the 
whispering  of  women  royal  only  in  name?  the  re- 
venge of  an  adulteress  upon  a  man  of  God?  the 
hesitation  of  a  girl  young,  beautiful,  vain,  good- 
natured,  but  used  to  obeying  an  imperious  mother? 
Did  he  hear  the  cymbal  in  her  long  brown  fingers, 
the  tinkling  of  the  bracelets  on  her  arms  ?  Did  he 
see  the  other  burden,  displacing  the  cymbal,  which 
her  beautiful  hands  bore,  dripping,  through  the  hor- 
ror of  the  dancers  beneath  the  wavering  of  the 
palace  lamps,  —  the  scintillation  of  silver,  the  color 
of  wet  red,  the  look  of  eyes  surprised  by  assassi- 
nation in  the  fitful,  early  slumber  of  a  dungeon 
night  ? 

Or  did  the  curtain  fall  upon  the  casement  of  his 
mind,  and  were  his  last  days  muffled  in  hopes  of 
life,  in  visions  of  the  desert  where  bird  and  beast 
and  man  arose  and  slept  and  moved  at  will?  in 
dreams  of  Jordan  shining  among  her  reeds,  of  the 
faces  of  his  converts,  of  the  water  glittering  on 
them ;  of  one  on  which  the  dove  had  rested ;  of  the 
life  for  which  his  own.  was  spent,  like  baptismal 
water  fallen,  forgotten,  a  drop  in  the  stream  ?  He 
was  content  to  be  spent,  and  more  than  content ! 
For  that  was  John;  the  greatest  of  forerunners,  a 
self -obliterated,  a  man  glad  to  be  defeated,  so  that 
a  greater  might  succeed. 


IN   HIS   OWN  COUNTRY  117 

Shocked  beyond  expression  at  the  news  of  his 
cousin's  incarceration,  Jesus  hastened  to  the  refuge 
into  which  he  carried  all  his  difficulties.  His  fa- 
miliar friend  the  desert  received  him,  and  in  the 
strong  society  of  solitude  he  sought  comfort  for  his 
sorrow.  As  is  always  true  of  a  man  who  knows 
how  to  value  and  when  to  cultivate  solitude,  he 
found  more  than  he  sought.  He  found  the  immedi- 
ate direction  of  his  own  life.  His  trouble  became 
his  guide.  From  the  foreground  of  his  grief  the 
mists  of  his  habitual  perplexity  began  to  clear 
away.  Excepting  the  death  of  Joseph,  —  a  gentle 
sorrow  dating  years  back,  —  he  had  known  no  per- 
sonal bereavement  up  to  this  time.  The  loss  of 
John  took  on  something  of  such  a  character. 

To  his  delicate  mind  the  fate  which  had  over- 
taken the  man  who  had  sacrificed  everything  for  him 
seemed  peculiarly  distressing.  John's  future  thus 
blackly  quenched,  appealed  to  a  certain  chivalry 
always  easily  uppermost  in  the  nature  of  Christ. 
John's  work  lay  at  his  feet,  a  splendid  wreck.  No 
sense  of  courtesy  to  his  early  religious  leader  now 
withheld  Jesus  from  the  full  exercise  of  his  own 
vocation.  Rather,  every  voice  of  loyalty  and  grati- 
tude summoned  him  to  expression.  He  began  at 
once  to  preach. 

Glowing  with  sacred  indignation,  and  consumed 
with  dread  for  the  fate  of  his  friend,  he  cast  him- 
self now  into  the  furnace  of  a  life  distinctly  to  be 
henceforth  classed  as  that  of  a  religious  orator. 

Deeply  absorbed,  he  came  back  from  Jtidea  and 
Samaria  into  Galilee.  There  he  uttered  himself. 


118  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

The  wayside,  the  country,  the  town,  received  and 
listened  to  him.  His  fame  as  a  worker  of  wonders, 
dating  back  to  his  last  visit  to  Jerusalem,  preceded 
him,  but  a  greater  followed  him.  Assuming  the 
full  authority  of  a  rabbi,  he  exhorted  freely ;  and, 
without  any  of  the  diffidence  which  had  heretofore 
restrained  him.  At  first  his  discourses  were  brief 
and  modest  in  the  extreme.  He  felt  his  way,  as  all 
young  preachers  must,  to  the  interest  of  audiences, 
if  not  to  the  measurement  of  his  own  powers.  The 
nature  and  extent  of  these  he  learned  by  experience, 
like  other  men.  He  developed  at  the  very  outset  of 
his  career  an  intensely  human,  well-balanced  mind ; 
it  was  always  attentive  to  practical  affairs ;  he  did 
not  waste  himself  in  speculation,  or  lose  himself  in 
aimless  Oriental  reverie.  He  sat  on  no  stone  pillar 
with  crossed  and  idle  feet,  a  figure  given  over  to 
dreams  and  desolation,  a  spectacle  for  curiosity,  a 
scarecrow  for  common  men.  He  withdrew  into  no 
useless  trance,  no  remote  psychical  experimentation. 
He  entered  into  no  Nirvana.  A  plain  man  among 
men,  he  took  his  few  friends  and  trod  the  country 
over  in  search  of  the  most  useful  thing  that  he 
could  do  or  say  whereby  to  startle  vice  or  comfort 
misery. 

These  two  thoughts,  these  two  purposes,  from  the 
beginning  strode  out  into  the  foreground  of  his 
mind ;  and  there  they  remained,  like  strong  figures 
wrestling  with  all  lesser  preoccupation.  JThe  ideal 
man  of  God  has  always  united  in  one  personality 
the  functions  of  priest  and  philanthropist.  Jesus 
carried  on  the  two  preeminently. 


IN  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY  119 

On  this  tour  through  Galilee,  when  the  novelty  of 
his  newly-assumed  position  as  a  preacher  sat  upon 
him  with  such  a  young  and  sparkling  enthusiasm 
that  he  might  easily  have  been  pardoned  if  he  had 
overlooked  the  simpler  calls  upon  him,  he  showed 
the  evenness  and  breadth  of  an  old  and  experi- 
enced missionary.  At  this  early  point  in  his  story 
he  developed  almost  immediately  one  of  the  most 
prominent  traits  in  his  character,  —  instinctive, 
abounding  sympathy  with  the  sick. 

It  was  in  Cana,  where  the  wedding  was.  Follow- 
ing some  natural  impulse  to  retrace  his  steps  to  the 
spot  where  he  had  first  learned  that  his  personal 
gifts  had  a  practical  scope,  he  revisited  the  village ; 
now  with  the  stronger  step  and  the  manlier  brow  of 
one  who  feels  that  he  is  acquiring  a  position,  and 
has  some  right  to  its  recognition. 

He  was  met  by  an  officer  of  Herod  Antipas,  a 
distracted  father  whose  heart  was  breaking  and 
whose  boy  was  dying.  The  courtier  begged  the  young 
Rabbi  to  hurry  to  a  stricken  home  in  Capernaum, 
some  twenty  miles  away ;  he  raised  the  old,  piteous 
cry  which  grief  has  sent  up  to  the  healers  of  the 
world  from  the  beginning  of  time  till  now :  "  Come 
down  !  come  down,  ere  he  die !  " 

"  He  liveth,"  replied  the  Nazarene  without  hesita- 
tion, "  go  thy  way  to  him." 

The  prompt  and  bold  reply  astounded  the  town ; 
it  may  have  surprised  the  speaker  himself.  The 
words  leaped  from  his  lips.  There  was  no  recalling 
them,  if  he  had  wished.  He  had  staked  his  repu- 
tation on  one  great  inward  movement  of  trust  in 


120  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

himself.  Would  the  facts  verify  or  refute  his  ven- 
ture? 

The  young,  inexperienced-healer  and  the  agitated 
father  looked  at  each  other  silently.  The  Rabbi's 
eye  did  not  quail ;  that  of  the  father  grew  calmer ; 
the  trust  which  precedes  hope  softened  its  feverish 
depth;  the  look  which  one  man  gives  to  another 
when  he  recognizes  superiority  and  hangs  his  heart's 
desire  upon  its  pledges,  passed  over  his  face.  It 
was  the  seventh  hour  of  the  day,  and  growing  dark. 
The  two  men  parted  without  further  words  ;  the  one 
to  seek  a  living  or  a  dying  child,  the  other  to  test 
a  living  or  a  dying  power  on  whose  genuineness  his 
whole  future,  his  faith  in  himself,  his  faith  in  God, 
might  depend.  Jesus  passed  the  next  few  days  in  a 
condition  which  hovered  between  unrest  and  assur- 
ance. Most  of  his  little  group  of  disciples  had 
scattered  to  their  homes  in  neighboring  villages,  and 
his  acquaintances  did  not  suspect  the  nature  of  his 
thoughts,  for  his  mien  was  quiet,  and  his  eye  con- 
tent. 

The  people  of  the  village  talked  enough  to  make 
up  for  this  reticence.  Doubt,  derision,  respect,  and 
belief  battled  from  lip  to  lip.  The  story  of  the 
water-jars  at  the  wedding  was  repeated  and  re- 
echoed. 

When  the  news  came  slowly  up  from  the  villa  by 
the  lakeshore,  it  was  received  with  less  talk  and 
more  thoughtfulness.  The  credulous  father,  wea- 
rily coming  towards  home,  —  afraid  to  delay,  afraid 
to  hasten,  not  daring  to  enter  the  door  of  his  stricken 
house,  and  not  daring  to  stay  away  from  the  sick- 


IN  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY  121 

room  with  such  encouragement  as  he  bore,  —  sud- 
denly lifting  his  eyes,  saw  that  the  servants  were 
running  to  meet  him,  tumbling  over  each  other,  ges- 
ticulating with  Oriental  excessiveness,  voluble,  smil- 
ing. .  .  . 

Capernaum  and  Cana  nodded  and  whispered : 
"  The  fever  turned  at  the  seventh  hour,  and  it  was 
to  the  child  as  the  Nazarene  had  said."  When  they 
hurried  with  the  tale  to  Jesus  he  smiled  quietly, 
wondering  and  blaming  himself  if  there  had  been 
any  hour  in  which  he  had  expected  otherwise.  But 
if  there  had  or  had  not  been,  he  told  no  man. 

A  little,  petted  boy  in  a  luxurious  lakeside  man- 
sion, with  the  laughter  of  convalescence  in  his 
eyes,  cuddled  against  the  throbbing  heart  of  a  father 
whose  dark  cheeks  blazed  with  joy.  But  on  the 
face  of  the  young  healer,  pondering  in  the  inland 
town,  there  shone  another  happiness.  He  had  tested 
himself.  He  had  tried  his  own  mystery.  Its  great 
and  sacred  source  had  answered  to  his  summons. 
How  hesitate  ?  why  doubt  ?  He  had  asked.  God 
had  replied.  That  hour  sprang  up  to  meet  him  like 
a  herald ;  a  smiling  future  trod  beyond  it.  Jesus 
knew  just  then  a  respite  of  hope.  There  now  began 
to  grow  in  him  a  sense  of  something  rooted  below 
hope,  beneath  moods  and  dreams  and  longings :  the 
consciousness  of  Power. 

Every  public  teacher  has  two  especial  problems 
before  him :  that  of  himself  and  that  of  his  times. 
In  the  life  of  Christ,  both  of  these  had  unusual 
features.  In  proportion  as  a  man  is  above  his  fel- 
lows, he  finds  it  difficult  to  understand  his  own 


122  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

nature  and  to  adjust  it  to  common  conditions.  In 
proportion  as  his  times  are  extraordinary,  his  work 
is  more  interesting,  but  his  responsibility  for  it  less 
clear.  There  is  something  in  the  sweep  and  force 
of  great  current  events  which,  while  it  tends  to  cre- 
ate heroes,  tends  also  to  create  humility.  A  man 
may  hesitate  to  take  the  helm  of  his  times  precisely 
because  they  are  so  urgent  that  they  seem  to  be  the 
lord  rather  than  the  subject  of  destiny..  A  modest 
soul  may  well  question  its  own  impulse  to  assume 
control  of  forces  so  masterful  that  the  very  essence 
of  fate  itself  appears  to  be  in  them. 

Jesus  Christ  lived  in  an  age  which  was  desperate 
enough  and  dark  enough  to  confound  any  human 
intelligence,  and  to  confuse  any  human  conscience. 

Haughty,  vicious,  and  decaying  Rome  was  mis- 
tress of  the  world.  Her  destinies  were  in  the  hands 
of  one  man,  the  commander  of  a  standing  army  of 
three  hundred  and  forty  thousand.  Her  conquests 
had  reached  their  mathematical  limit,  and  could  go 
no  farther.  Her  morals  were  unutterable,  and  her 
religion  was  undecipherable.  The  apotheosis  of  the 
emperor  was  the  climax  of  worship.  Prayer  was 
chiefly  the  expression  of  corruption  or  of  greed. 
A  man  prayed  for  the  death  of  a  rich  relative,  or 
for  the  gratification  of  wishes  such  as  civilization 
declines  to  name.  When  such  petitions  were  unan^ 
swered,  he  dropped  into  blasphemy  as  a  creditable 
sequence.  Marriage  had  almost  ceased  to  be  re- 
spected, and,  if  still  respectable,  it  was  only  by 
courtesy  to  a  dying  tradition.  Family  life  abounded 
in  abominations  at  which  modern  thought  does  not 


IN  HIS   OWN   COUNTRY  123 

glance,  and  public  indecency  was  too  black  to  recall. 
Philosophers  themselves  were  known  to  practise  the 
vices  which  they  professed  to  scorn.  The  popula- 
tion of  the  empire  was  estimated  at  one  hundred 
and  twenty  millions  ;  of  these  one  half  were  slaves. 
To  be  a  sick  slave  or  an  old  one  was  to  be  cast  off 
to  perish.  The  cruelties  inflicted  on  slaves  were 
monstrous,  merciless,  and  a  matter  of  course.  New- 
born children  were  murdered  whenever  it  was  con- 
venient, and  the  law  made  no  account  of  so  small  a 
matter. 

The  fashionable  theory  of  charity  took  the  ground 
that  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  give  alms  ;  better 
to  let  the  beggars  die,  and  out  of  the  way  with 
them!  Such  a  thing  as  a  hospital  was  unknown. 
Life  was  a  deification  of  corruption,  and  death  but 
an  exasperating  interruption  of  vice.  Among  the 
epitaphs  of  such  an  age  we  long  remember  an  out- 
cry like  this  over  the  grave  of  a  child :  "  To  the 
unjust  gods  who  robbed  me  of  life."  Or  this, 
carved  in  memory  of  a  girl  of  twenty  years  :  "  I  lift 
my  hands  against  the  god  who  took  me  away,  inno- 
cent as  I  am."  Such  arraignment  of  Heaven  rang 
from  the  world  as  has  never  been  exceeded  in  its 
history. 

Latin  authors  longed  for  some  assuagement  of  the 
wide  and  deep  despair.  Men  whose  great  names  are 
familiar  to  us  in  ancient  literature  revolted  from  hope, 
and  dreamed  of  virtue  as  a  lost  ideal,  and  looked  on 
at  human  life  as  a  pitiable  play,  scarcely  up  to  the 
proportions  of  a  farce. 

The  Hebrews,  the  captives  of  this  ripe  but  decay- 


124  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

ing  empire,  were  not  unaffected  by  the  taint  of  their 
masters.  One  of  their  greatest  teachers  and  writers 
thought  so  lightly  of  marriage  that  he  sanctioned 
divorce  if  a  wife  burned  her  husband's  dinner.  The 
easy  sin  of  a  religious  people  abounded,  and  the 
hypocrite  was  everywhere.  Long  prayers,  long 
./  faces,  and  short  virtues  went  arm  in  arm. 

Theology  had  ousted  religion,  and  ecclesiasticism 
had  strangled  devotion  in  temples  and  in  synagogues. 
The  people  were  helpless,  fierce,  and  rebellious  ;  but 
they  had  the  vices  of  despair,  and  the  errors  of  a  re- 
ligiosity which  has  so  long  taken  the  place  of  faith 
that  men  have  ceased  to  know  the  difference. 

Jesus  was  profoundly  moved  by  the  condition  of 
his  people  and  the  evils  of  his  times.  No  philoso- 
pher could  have  studied  them  more  carefully.  He 
had  known  some  opportunities  to  do  so  in  Nazareth, 
where  men  from  all  parts  of  the  world  poured  by 
upon  the  caravan  routes.  He  had  seen  the  culture 
of  the  Greek,  the  luxury  of  the  Roman,  the  man- 
,  ners  and  characteristics  of  the  Phrenicians,  Per- 
sians, Arabians,  Chaldeans,  and  the  corruption  of 
all.  His  pure  and  secluded  youth  had  strongly  and 
silently  observed,  reflected,  and  stored  up  material 
for  a  mature  view  of  the  condition  of  his  age.  He 
had  also  stored  up  sensitiveness  all  his  own. 

Quivering  with  recoil  from  the  moral  horrors  by 
which  he  was  surrounded,  he  flung  his  whole  nature 
deliberately  and  determinedly  upon  them.  He  was 
no  Roman  gentleman  turning  with  a  dilettante  in- 
difference from  the  degradation  of  his  times  ;  he 
was  a  Hebrew  mechanic,  an  itinerant  missionary, 


IN  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY  125 

pouring  the  pure  energies  of  a  devotee  into  the  pol- 
luted current  by  which  he  refused  to  be  stirred. 

In  the  first  fire  of  his  enthusiasm  as  a  preacher, 
he  made  one  apparent  mistake.  He  went  to  Naza- 
reth. What  minister  of  any  times  and  of  any 
people  recalls  without  wincing  his  first  sermon  in 
his  native  place,  or  in  the  village  of  his  childhood  ? 
The  tenderness  for  old  associations,  the  innocent 
pleasure  in  appearing  before  old  friends,  the  inex- 
perienced belief  that  they  would  be  more  glad  to 
hear  him  preach  than  other  people,  —  how  reluc- 
tantly these  have  given  place  to  the  surprised  pain, 
the  slow  suspicion,  the  smarting  realization  of  the 
truth !  In  his  oldest  acquaintances  the  young  ex- 
iiorter  finds  his  severest  critics,  his  coldest  hearers, 
unwilling  appreciation.  It  is  the  way  of  the  world, 
—  not  one  of  its  noble  ways,  —  and  Jesus,  like  other 
leaders  of  men,  must  needs  take  the  world  as  he 
found  it. 

He  arrived  in  Nazareth,  let  v&  thiak,  on  a  Fri- 
day afternoon.  The  sun  was  about  to  set.  The 
Seventh  Day  was  at  hand.  Already  the  signs  of 
preparation  for  the  Jewish  Sabbath  stirred  across 
the  village.  Domestic  and  field  work,  trade  and 
travel,  hurried  to  cessation.  The  women  indoors 
and  the  men  without  ran  to  and  fro  with  busy 
interest.  The  little  town,  occupied  along  the  length 
of  its  rough  highway,  turned  indifferent  eyes  to 
the  mountains  which  were  blazing  in  the  dying 
day,  and  paid  scant  attention  to  the  appearance  of 
the  young  citizen  who  had  left  a  while  ago,  un- 
known, and  was  returning  famous.  Jesus  looked 


126  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

at  the  familiar  hills,  —  grand,  silent,  these  in  solemn 
shadow,  those  transfigured  with  color,  all  carrying 
the  thoughts  up ;  but  the  villagers  scarcely  looked 
at  Jesus.  Their  eyes  were  on  the  level  earth,  his 
on  the  heights.  What  wonder  that  they  could  not 
meet? 

He  had  scarcely  arrived  -when  there  broke  upon 
the  evening  air  the  clear,  strong  call  of  a  trum- 
pet uttering  itself  authoritatively,  —  a  double  blast. 
The  synagogue  minister  stood  on  the  roof  of  his 
house  with  his  face  towards  Jerusalem.  He  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  the  Sabbath.  He  summoned 
every  Hebrew  soul  within  reach  of  his  official  cry 
to  cease  labor  and  to  begin  worship.  The  trumpet 
called  three  times.  When  it  ceased,  the  trumpeter 
laid  it  reverently  down  by  his  side,  that  he  might 
not  profane  the  sacred  day  by  carrying  the  instru- 
ment. Now,  all  over  the  darkening  village,  from 
every  house,  there  sprang  out  a  gentle  spark.  The 
Sabbath  lamp  had  been  lighted.  A  sense  of  fes- 
tivity glittered  with  it.  The  Sabbath  was  the 
pledge  of  affection  between  God  and  Israel,  and 
every  home  was  arrayed  to  meet  it,  like  a  bride  or  a 
queen.  Every  one  wore  his  best  clothes.  Every 
table  held  its  best  meal.  Benedictions  were  spoken 
over  the  wine  and  water.  The  suspension  of  labor, 
the  coming  on  of  rest,  the  glory  of  worship,  made 
holiday  of  holyday.  The  traveler  shared  the  gen- 
eral happiness. 

Sleeping  with  the  peacefulness  which  comes  with 
return  from  more  stirring  scenes  and  noisier  loca- 
tions to  a  country  home,  he  awoke  refreshed  and 


IN  HIS   OWN  COUNTRY  127 

vigorous.  The  clay  rose  bright  and  warm.  The 
early  hour  of  worship  approached.  Jesus  antici- 
pated it  gladly.  He  walked  rapidly  (for  such  was 
Jewish  law)  to  the  sombre  place  where  he  had  wor- 
shiped since  he  could  remember,  —  the  old,  stiff 
building,  dreaded  and  loved,  wherein  to  laugh  or 
joke,  or  eat  or  sleep,  was  sinful,  and  wherein  no 
man  but  a  rabbi  might  seek  shelter  from  a  storm. 

The  rustic  synagogue  was  crowded.  Jesus  mod- 
estly took  his  accustomed  seat  among  his  old  neigh- 
bors. His  heart  was  full  of  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  he  wished  he  could  share  with  them.  He 
was  so  loving,  so  gentle  a  man !  He  felt  tenderly 
towards  all  these  people,  among  whom  he  had  lived 
so  many  humble  years.  He  watched  for  their  well- 
known  forms  and  faces  as  they  came  in  and  took 
their  seats,  —  the  men  by  themselves,  lordly,  as 
Jewish  men  were  wont,  putting  the  women  apart  in 
a  gallery  of  their  own.  The  elders  of  the  meeting 
pompously  took  their  places  on  the  raised  platform ; 
behind,  stood  the  movable  chest,  representative  of 
the  great  Ark  of  the  Temple,  and  itself  containing 
the  rolls  of  the  sacred  writings.  A  curtain  hung 
across  it,  and  the  holy  lamp  burned  before  it. 

While  he  sat  there,  lost  in  reverie,  modest,  gen- 
tle, thinking  not  of  himself,  the  chief  ruler  of  the 
synagogue  came  up  and  spoke  to  Jesus,  formally 
asking  him  to  act  for  that  day  as  the  conductor  of 
the  services.  This  request  was  not  unexpected  to 
him,  as  it  might  have  been  an  act  of  courtesy  or  of 
curiosity  on  the  part  of  his  neighbors  to  extend  the 
invitation  :  due  certainly  to  any  rabbi  with  much 


128  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

less  than  the  fame  already  gathered  about  the  name 
and  personality  of  their  townsman.  At  all  events, 
the  politeness  was  paid  him.  Trusting  in  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  old  friends,  believing  with  his  secret 
instincts  in  their  better  motives,  he  confidingly 
accepted  their  invitation,  and  rising,  stepped  to  his 
place  at  the  lectern. 

He  began  the  service  of  the  morning  in  the  for- 
mulated manner  by  repeating  the  Jewish  liturgy. 
This  was  one  of  the  prayers  with  which  he  opened 
that  Sabbath  meeting  in  the  Nazareth  Syna- 
gogue : 

"  Blessed  be  Thou,  O  Lord,  King  of  the  world, 
who  formest  the  lights  and  Greatest  the  darkness, 
who  makest  peace  and  Greatest  everything ;  who  in 
mercy  givest  light  to  the  earth,  and  to  those  who 
dwell  upon  it,  anfl  in  Thy  goodness  day  by  day  and 
every  day  renewest  the  works  of  creation.  Blessed 
be  the  Lord  our  God  for  the  glory  of  his  handi- 
works and  for  the  light-giving  lights  which  He  has 
made  for  our  praise.  Selah.  Blessed  be  the  Lord 
our  God  who  has  formed  the  lights." 

The  invocation  sounds  a  little  cold  or  dull  to  our 
ears.  The  young  preacher  of  that  summer  morn- 
ing was  accustomed  to  do  it  reverence  ;  it  was  the 
liturgy  of  his  church,  and  of  his  childhood;  yet, 
certain  public  prayers  of  his  own,  uttered  later  in 
the  course  of  his  ministry,  and  immortal  to  human 
needs  and  worship,  indicate  something  of  the  dis- 
tance of  his  nature  from  the  formality  to  which  he 
deferred. 

He  deferred,  however,  and  he  conformed  to  the 


IN  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY  129 

customs  of  his  church,  like  a  man  of  acquaintance 
with  life,  up  to  a  certain  point.  When  he  reached 
that  point  he  departed  promptly  and  thoroughly. 
He  followed  the  usual  order  of  exercise ;  another 
prayer  and  a  better  one  succeeding  the  first ;  then 
came  the  repetition  of  the  creed,  another  prayer  and 
six  eulogies  or  benedictions  ;  at  their  close  a  distin- 
guished rabbi  was  at  liberty  to  add  certain  prayers 
of  his  own  which  might  be  fixed  or  free.  At  last 
the  time  for  his  discourse  arrived.  The  sacred  roll 
was  taken  from  the  ark  and  handed  to  him  by  the 
chazzan  or  minister. 

On  this  occasion  the  lesson  for  the  day  was  from 
one  of  the  greatest  of  Jewish  prophets.     Jesus  se-^ 
lected   as   his   text   from    Isaiah    these   impressive  I 
words  : 

"  The  spirit  of  the  Lord  is  upon  me  because  He 
hath  anointed  me  to  preach  the  good  tidings  to  the 
poor ;  ...  to  preach  release  to  the  captives,  and  re- 
covering of  sight  to  the  blind,  to  set  at  liberty  them 
that  are  bruised,  to  proclaim  the  acceptable  year  of 
the  Lord." 

Having  read  the  text  in  Hebrew,  translating  as 
he  went  into  the  common  tongue,  he  gave  the  roll 
back  to  the  minister,  and  according  to  the  custom 
of  his  church  sat  down  to  preach. 

He  looked  for  a  moment  silently  over  his  audi- 
ence. Familiar  faces  answered  his  gaze  with  curi- 
osity or  with  that  doubt  of  his  ability  to  give  them 
a  remarkable  sermon,  natural  to  a  man's  fellow- 
townsmen  who  have  known  him  since  he  was  a  little 
boy  among  them.  "  He  is  just  like  us.  What  can 


130  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

he  have  to  say  ?  There  must  be  some  mistake  about 
this  ado  people  are  making  over  him  in  other  places. 
They  do  not  know  him  as  well  as  we  do."  Polite 
attention  could  not  hide  this  inevitable  mental  atti- 
tude from  so  keen  a  perception  as  his  who  now  ad- 
dressed them. 

His  face  was  quite  steady  and  strong ;  his  eyes 
}arge  and  luminous ;  not  a  line  about  his  mouth 
wavered.  His  high  brow,  soft,  curling,  unshaven 
beard  and  hair,  and  clear  brown  pallor  were  relieved 
like  a  medallion  from  the  background  of  the  curtain 
and  the  ark  and  the  plain  limestone  finish  of  the 
country  synagogue.  He  had  the  beautiful,  oval  con- 
tour of  the  face,  like  his  mother's.  His  robe  was 
that  of  the  Jewish  rabbi ;  he  wore  a  blue  talith  on 
that  Sabbath;  with  a  white  and  hyacinth  fringe. 
Nothing  about  his  dress  was  outre ;  there  was  no 
effort  to  be  eccentric.  Nothing  was  remarkable 
about  his  appearance  before  the  congregation  of  his 
own  village  —  nothing  but  his  beauty,  his  dignity 
and  that  air  to  which  we  apply  the  word  high-mind- 
edness.  There  were  crises  in  his  history  when  this 
look  reached  a  quality  requiring  a  much  larger 
word.  But  at  this  moment  it  was  a  simple,  natural, 
noble  expression,  not  too  far  above  the  comprehen- 
sion of  his  hearers,  and  not  so  far  apart  from  their 
standards  in  the  estimation  of  character  as  to  be 
lost  upon  them. 

His  first  words  startled  them  disagreeably. 

"  This  day  is  this  Scripture  fulfilled  in  your  ears," 
he  boldly  said.  Then,  his  lips  being  unloosed,  he 
poured  out  his  heart. 


IN  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY  131 

He  maintained  the  astonishing  intimation  of  his 
opening  sentence  with  a  firmness  not  to  be  ignored 
for  whatever  it  meant  in  so  unobtrusive  a  man.  He 
gave  his  audience  to  understand  that  the  most  pre- 
cious tradition  and  hope  of  their  people  was  about 
to  be  verified.  The  great  messianic  expectation  in 
which  they  all  believed,  was  to  become  a  fact.  In  a 
word,  he  himself  was  the  fact. 

This  daring  assumption,  firmly  suggested,  was  re- 
ceived with  mixed  emotion  by  his  townsfolk.  Some 
thought :  How  gracious  his  mien !  How  melodious 
his  voice !  How  agreeable  his  thought !  For  the 
Jews  were  experts  in  the  criticism  of  religious  ora- 
tory. 

Their  ideas  of  a  popular  preacher  were  peremp- 
tory. He  must  be  suave,  persuasive,  attractive  in  1 
appearance,  manner,  and  style,  polished,  and  alto- 
gether pleasant.  He  must  be  a  good  story-teller, 
witty  at  some  times,  eloquent  at  all.  He  must 
keep  unwelcome  truths  to  himself,  or  clothe  them 
in  the  fine  raiment  of  metaphor,  so  that  they  met 
a  man  politely.  An  audience  was  not  to  be  hit 
between  the  eyes.  The  popular  preacher  must 
abound  in  tact ;  he  must  be  a  religious  diplomat ; 
it  must  be  amusing  or  moving  to  listen  to  him  ;  a 
hearer  could  not  be  bored,  or  made  uncomfortable 
with  truths  that  he  did  not  like  or  accept. 

These  things  might  do  for  wandering  evangelists, 
wild  as  the  reeds  among  which  they  exhorted.  They 
were  not  for  the  rabbi,  accepted  in  the  synagogue. 
The  orthodox  preacher,  working  in  the  orthodox 
channels,  would  not  mistake  his  business. 


132  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

But  the  congregation  in  the  synagogue  at  Naza- 
reth that  Sabbath  morning  was  not  wholly  satisfied 
from  the  outset,  arid,  as  the  young  preacher  pro- 
gressed in  his  discourse,  their  dissatisfaction  grew. 
With  the  customary  freedom  by  which  Jewish  audi- 
ences were  allowed  to  question  their  teachers,  they 
interrupted  him,  cynically  requiring  proof  of  his 
tremendous  claim.  Having  heard  the  rumors  of 
unusual  gifts  vaguely  associated  with  his  name,  with 
the  vulgar  love  of  a  show,  and  the  common  Jewish 
fancy  of  a  "sign,"  they  raised  the  usual  popular 
demand  for  miracles.  Here,  to  their  annoyance, 
they  were  met  by  a  flat  refusal.  This  came  in  the 
form  of  a  reply  which  has  become  one  of  the  most 
famous  epigrams  of  literature,  and  a  favorite  maxim 
of  all  nations.  A  prophet,  he  caustically  said,  has 
no  honor  in  his  own  country.  The  dexterity  of  this 
rejoinder  was  reinforced  by  a  fearless  defense  of  his 
own  ground.  They  might  naturally  ask  him,  he 
admitted,  to  repeat  in  Nazareth  what  he  had  done  in 
Capernaum.  But  of  the  advisability  of  that,  they 
must  allow  him  to  be  the  only  and  the  proper  judge. 
Ingeniously  turning  to  their  sacred  writings  for  sup- 
port, he  illustrated  his  position.  Thus  and  so  had 
taken  place.  Israel,  in  the  days  of  ancient  famine, 
had  not  lacked  for  widows ;  but  to  only  one  starv- 
ing woman,  and  she  in  a  foreign  town,  had  Elijah 
been  sent  with  relief.  Israel,  in  the  time  of  Elisha, 
had  abounded  with  lepers  ;  but  a  Syrian  was  the 
only  wretched  creature  cleansed. 

Jesus  was  about  to  continue  the  discourse  of 
which  we  have  only  a  fragment  reported.  Plainly, 


IN  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY  133 

he  had  more  to  say.  His  introduction  had  but  par- 
ried with  the  discontent  of  his  -hearers  ;  he  was  seek- 
ing, perhaps,  to  swerve  it  from  the  deeper  purpose 
of  his  address ;  or  conscious,  possibly,  that  he  could 
achieve  little  or  nothing  against  it.  Still,  the  things 
he  would  have  said,  the  truths  that  Nazareth  needed, 
surged  to  his  lips.  His  brain  throbbed  with  them. 
His  heart  was  inundated  with  them.  His  out- 
stretched hands  pleaded  eloquently  and  silently  for 
opportunity  to  explain  and  to  apply  the  unwelcome 
candor  of  his  opening  words. 

But  hubbub  had  already  set  in.  Displeasure 
grew  to  anger ;  anger  mounted  into  rage.  The  pro- 
nounced Jewish  features  of  the  congregation  were 
contorted  with  spite.  Whispers  rose  into  audible 
comments :  "Who  is  this  fellow,  after  all,  that  we 
should  sit  here  and  take  insolence  from  him  ?  Why, 
nobody  but  Jesus  —  little  Jesus,  the  carpenter's 
boy  —  we  have  seen  him  around,  ever  since  he  could 
walk.  He  used  to  play  with  my  boy.  He  came  i 
to  our  house  on  errands.  He  has  been  to  school 
with  our  children.  I  gave  him  an  order  once  to  \  \f 
make  me  a  table.  His  father  sent  him  to  mend  1 
our  chest.  He  has  sat  all  these  years  in  this  very 
synagogue,  and  known  his  place,  and  kept  it.  ... 
How  came  he  out  of  it  ?  Teach  it  to  him !  Show 
it  to  him ! 

"  Nazareth  is  not  good  enough  for  him.  Jerusalem 
was,  and  Capernaum ;  even  little  Cana.  We  are 
not  grand  enough  for  him  to  show  off  his  signs  and 
wonders,  and  other  eccentricities.  Get  rid  of  him, 
and  his  airs !  We  are  used  to  preachers,  not  char- 


134  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

latans,  in  this  synagogue.  Turn  him  out  of  it !  ... 
Shall  this  carpenter  sit  there  and  talk  to  us  as  if  we 
were  lepers  and  Gentiles  ?  " 

The  young  preacher  tried  once  or  twice  to  hush 
the  clamor ;  but  it  had  swollen  to  a  stream  in  which, 
before  one  might  know  what  had  happened,  he  was 
borne  along  like  a  broken  bough.  Convulsed  with 
quick  Oriental  passion,  his  townsfolk  tore  him  from 
the  lectern  —  they  were  many  and  determined  — 
and  dragged  him  along  down  the  aisle,  and  out  of 
the  synagogue.  The  outer  air  of  the  hot  summer 
Sabbath  morning  smote  scorching  on  his  grieved 
face.  Whether  from  sheer  surprise,  helplessness,  or 
prudence,  he  tried  to  make  no  useless  resistance. 
Immediately  he  found  himself  near  the  edge  of  a 
considerable  crowd  of  pushing,  scowling,  howling 
men.  They  urged  him  along  virulently.  In  a  very 
short  time,  looking  straight  ahead  with  wide  aston- 
ished eyes,  he  perceived  that  he  was  rapidly  ap- 
proaching the  mountainous  boundary  of  the  town. 
He  remembered  the  nearest  precipice  —  no  mean 
gulf.  Was  it  probable  ?  was  it  possible  ? 

Turning  to  guage  the  intention  of  the  village  mob, 
he  felt  himself  pushed  along  the  faster  for  this 
momentary  negligence.  The  truth  now  began  to 
be  evident.  It  was  the  purpose  of  his  neighbors  — 
not  to  commit  open  murder,  not  to  hurl  him  over, 
distinctly,  but  imperceptibly,  as  it  might  appear  un- 
knowingly, to  crowd  him  over  the  edge  of  the  gorge. 
It  would  be  easy  to  say,  afterwards,  that  his  foot 
slipped,  that  he  struggled  in  the  wrong  spot  against 
the  deep  religious  displeasure  of  an  outraged  con- 


IN  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY  135 

gregation ;  and  so  fell.  Half  a  dozen  explanations 
of  this  ghastly  accident  would  be  possible. 

When  the  real  purpose  of  the  rioters  became  man- 
ifest, the  unpopular  preacher  suddenly  turned  and 
withstood  them ;  not  T)yT)low,  or  buffet ;  he  did  not 
wrestle  or  strike  out  upon  them  as  an  angry  and  im- 
prudent man  might  have  done.  He  defied  them  by 
the  finer  resistance  of  a  look.  He  stood  back  to 
the  hills,  whose  rounded  heads  and  shoulders  rose 
high  above  the  shameful  scene,  and  whose  bare 
faces,  unveiled  in  the  hot  light,  seemed  to  try  to 
turn  away  from  the  sight  they  saw.  The  terraces  of 
Nazareth  overflowed  with  summer  colors ;  every 
little  street  marked  by  lines  of  vegetation  rich  and 
ripe.  The  woods  where  he  had  walked  and  dreamed 
and  prayed  all  his  quiet,  unoffensive  youth  stood 
still  in  the  windless  heat,  like  a  phalanx  on  duty, 
awaiting  orders  in  a  martial  crisis.  All  the  familiar 
scenery  had  a  friendly  look. 

Only  the  familiar  people  wore  this  other  —  what 
a  glare  of  hate !  He  glanced  from  face  to  face  — 
his  old  neighbors  !  All  his  life  his  friends  !  Here 
and  here  and  everywhere  a  dogged  murderous  rage ! 
With  this  man  he  used  to  walk  home  from  the 
synagogue,  pleasantly  talking.  To  that  one  he 
had  offered  many  neighborly  favors.  These  —  they 
were  lads  with  him,  they  had  studied  the  law  with 
him  in  school  hours,  and  roamed  the  fields  and 
forests  with  him  at  play  together.  Had  he  ever 
done  them  a  wrong  —  any  one  of  them  all  ?  Had 
he  ever  failed  to  do  them  a  kindness,  and  that,  how 
gladly,  when  he  could  ?  He  thought  of  the  things 


136  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

that  he  had  meant  to  say  to  them  in  the  syna- 
gogue that  morning ;  how  his  heart  had  yearned 
over  them ;  how  lovingly  he  would  have  led  them 
to  a  nobler  view  of  life  !  How  tenderly  he  had 
longed  to  teach  them  broader  truth.  How  his  soul 
had  poured  itself  out  to  serve  them ! 

Before  that  gesture  his  old  neighbors  began  to 
move  back  from  him  ;  not  a  man  of  them  could 
have  said  why.  He  stood  still,  defenseless  among 
them  all,  there  on  the  edge  of  the  rock.  The  chasm 
gaped  below ;  a  step  would  carry  a  man  over.  He 
glanced  down,  then  back  at  the  people,  then  began 
slowly  to  advance  upon  them. 

What  was  that  startling  change  upon  his  gentle 
countenance  ?  Only  a  few  times  in  his  life  was  it 
witnessed  and  noted :  but  no  man  who  ever  saw  it 
ever  withstood  it  or  forgot  it  to  his  last  hour.  As 
if  they  had  been  smitten  of  God  the  Nazarenes  fled 
before  that  look.  The  crowd  wavered,  broke,  and 
melted.  Jesus  continued  to  advance  steadily  upon 
it ;  passed  through  it ;  and  went  his  way,  down  the 
hot  village  street.  No  man  ventured  to  molest  him 
—  nay,  nor  to  address  him.  He  passed  on  silent, 
and  protected  in  the  unutterable  scorn  which  the 
highest  may  put  between  itself  and  the  lowest  soul. 

He  passed  on,  and  out  from  Nazareth  ;  wherein 
from  that  day  he  never  made  his  home  again.  The 
wound  had  gone  too  deep. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   HEALEK 

THE  rest  of  the  summer  passed  in  quiet  excite- 
ment. He  spent  much  of  it  alone.  His  career  devel- 
oped by  gradual  and  beautiful  stages.  His  first 
step  was  to  make  for  himself  a  new  home,  removed 
from  the  village  which  had  insulted  him ;  for  this 
purpose  he  chose  Capernaum,  a  busy,  central  town, 
in  which  he  had  already  spent  more  or  less  time, 
and  in  that  place  he  remained  a  legal  citizen  during 
the  remnant  of  his  life.  His  mother  and  brothers 
also  took  up  their  residence  there,  but  his  sisters, 
having  married,  stayed  on  in  Nazareth,  not  anxious 
to  mix  themselves  further  with  the  affairs  of  a  fam- 
ily which  had  acquired  so  unpleasant  a  notoriety. 
His  brothers,  on  the  other  hand,  for  that  very  rea- 
son, preferred  not  to  return  to  the  village ;  they 
showed  no  especial  sympathy  with  him  in  any  of 
his  successes  or  failures.  It  need  not  be  said  that 
they  were,  necessarily,  among  the  number  of  his 
friends  who  publicly  expressed  doubts  of  his  sanity. 
But,  for  whatever  reason,  they  did  not  make  him  any 
too  welcome  under  his  mother's  roof. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  much  of  the  suffer- 
ing of  his  sad  life  came  from  the  condition  of  his 
family  affairs,  —  a  tragedy  in  itself  to  a  sensitive 


138  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

heart  longing  to  be  loved,  and  itself  the  essence  of 
love.  Popular  comment  always  reserves  a  sharp 
hit  for  the  genius  who  is  not  appreciated  at  home, 
and  a  special  fling  for  the  religious  leader  whose 
relatives  do  not  seem  to  believe  in  him.  Jesus  had 
the  full  smart  of  this  to  bear.  His  mother's  home 
was  not  made  so  happy  to  him  that  he  cared  to  stay 
there  with  any  regularity.  He  turned  rather  to  his 
fishermen  friends  for  shelter  and  companionship. 
He  spoke  pathetically  once,  in  his  short  and  troubled 
career,  upon  this  point,  contrasting  the  wild  things 
of  the  desert  and  of  the  night  with  his  own  un- 
cherished  life.  Between  himself  and  his  mother, 
however,  no  family  differences  were  suffered  to  in- 
sert themselves.  Their  mutual  sympathy  remained 
sweet  and  strong,  and  later  she  often  followed 
him  upon  his  preaching  tours,  with  a  few  other 
thoughtful  and  gentle  women  not  of  the  ordinary 
type.  But  he  lacked  the  power  to  make  a  home 
of  his  own  for  Mary ;  he  was  too  poor  a  man  to 
maintain  one,  and  too  busy  to  provide  the  means  to 
do  so.  He  was  reared  to  a  trade ;  he  had  entered 
a  profession.  Like  many  another  man  who  has 
taken  a  step  of  such  a  kind,  he  had  abandoned  a 
comfortable  income  for  an  uncertain  support.  He 
and  his  small  group  of  immediate  friends  lived  upon 
such  money  as  they  earned  among  them,  or  upon  the 
contributions  of  the  public,  —  a  scanty  source  of 
maintenance  of  which  he  made  the  best,  with  cheer- 
ful patience ;  though  it  meant  fewer  comforts  and 
more  hardships  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to  in 
his  parents'  home  in  his  earlier  life. 


THE   HEALER  139 

No  sudden  access  to  ease  padded  his  opening  pro- 
spects. To  luxury  he  was  always  an  indifferent 
stranger.  He  never  made  money.  He  did  not 
handle  money.  The  treasurer  of  the  little  society  of 
twelve,  which  he  soon  found  it  necessary  formally  to 
organize,  looked  after  his  wants.  They  were  not 
many,  and  simple  enough.  He  must  have  a  few  in- 
expensive, decent  robes,  such  as  a  rabbi  ought  to 
wear,  —  the  red  and  gray  striped  tunic,  or  what  we 
might  call  jersey  undergarment,  covered  from  sight 
by  the  talith,  which  was  usually  of  hyacinth  blue, 
and  always  fringed,  with  the  tasseled  corners  of 
blue  and  white,  indicating  his  ecclesiastical  position  ; 
the  girdle,  the  head-dress,  or  white  sudar,  perform- 
ing the  office  of  a  turban,  but  a  little  differently 
constructed;  the  sandals  and  staff.  He  must  have 
a  plain  meal  when  he  was  too  faint  to  live  without 
it  any  longer ;  a  shelter  at  night ;  a  spot  to  bathe 
his  dusty,  aching  feet  after  a  hot  day's  march ;  a 
rug  on  a  friend's  floor ;  a  door  to  shut  between  him 
and  the  clamoring  people  when  he  was  too  far  spent 
to  do  anything  more  for  them ;  the  merest  protec- 
tion from  crowds  which  a  public  man  requires  at  the 
hands  of  some  affectionate  friend,  if  his  own  family 
do  not  give  it  to  him.  These  comprised  his  modest 
daily  needs.  He  lived  the  life  of  a  poor  man,  with 
the  consistency  and  simplicity  of  a  gentleman.  Vul- 
gar poverty,  aping  affluence  and  quarreling  with  its 
limitations,  found  it  as  hard  to  understand  him  as 
position  and  wealth. 

This  educated  mechanic,  this  heretic  preacher, 
this  humble  leader  of  men  presented  from  the  very 


140  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

outset  an  annoying  social  puzzle  to  his  countrymen 
and  to  his  times. 

In  spite  of  his  bitter  experience  at  Nazareth,  and 
of  his  more  than  usually  lonely  summer,  he  was 
happier  at  this  time  than  often  —  perhaps  than  ever 
—  in  his  life.  Of  his  public  life,  this  was  distinctly 
the  most  cheerful  year.  Now,  he  began  to  know  the 
pleasantness  of  growing  popularity.  Now,  he  began 
to  feel  that  his  great  sense  of  moral  truth  was  really 
communicable  to  a  certain  proportion  of  minds. 
Now,  his  spiritual  force  gathered  itself  to  encour- 
aging action.  Now,  he  knew  what  it  was  to  hope 
for  more  than  the  space  of  a  mood.  Now,  his  con- 
sciousness of  power  grew  upon  something  more  solid 
than  dreams,  and  more  tangible  than  prayer. 

Having,  for  many  practical  reasons,  selected  Ca- 
pernaum, he  made  that  thriving  port  his  head- 
quarters. Here  he  recalled  to  his  side  the  four  fish- 
ermen friends  who  were  pursuing  their  calling  on  the 
Galilean  lake.  Up  to  this  time  their  service  and 
society  had  been  irregular,  but  he  now  summoned 
them  to  new  and  definite  obligations  in  his  behalf. 
This  downright  act  of  authority  —  a  new  assump- 
tion on  his  part  —  he  enfolded  in  such  a  warm  out- 
burst of  sympathy  with  their  practical  affairs  that 
he  became  in  a  half  hour  the  most  popular  of  men 
among  the  Galilean  fishermen. 

The  men  had  been  out  since  the  day  before,  and 
the  capricious  lake  whose  abundant  shoals  of  fish 
sometimes  choked  and  sometimes  evaded  the  most 
skillful  net,  had  yielded  nothing  to  an  all  night's 
hard  work.  Sleepless,  hungry,  uncomfortable,  wet, 


THE  HEALER  141 

and  discouraged,  the  fishermen  had  rowed  ashore, 
sullenly  washed  their  nets,  and  put  out  again  at  the 
request  of  Jesus,  who  expressed  a  wish  to  use  one 
of  their  boats  as  a  temporary  pulpit  wherefrom  to 
finish  one  of  his  brief  discourses.  At  the  surpris- 
ing order  of  the  preacher  that  they  set  their  nets 
in  such  and  such  a  spot,  the  cross  and  disheartened 
men  smiled  with  respectful  doubt.  A  superior 
rabbi  does  not  make  a  good  fisherman.  The  lec- 
tern, not  the  deck,  was  the  place  for  the  landsman. 
When,  however,  they  hopelessly  followed  his  sugges- 
tion, and  the  richest  haul  of  fish  taken  on  Gennesa- 
ret  that  night  broke  the  nets  and  all  but  sank  the 
boat,  the  moral  effect  was  such  as  only  poor  men 
can  appreciate.  Here  was  no  common  rabbi  who 
would  stick  to  his  synagogue  and  let  a  man  starve. 
Here  was  a  wonder  and  a  wonderworker,  caring 
for  a  poor  fellow  and  the  catch ;  concerning  him- 
self about  your  affairs,  not  above  your  troubles. 
The  most  warm-hearted  man  in  the  crew  dropped  to 
his  knees  among  the  leaping  fish,  and  impulsively 
offered  to  Jesus  the  service  of  his  life. 

From  the  fishing  town  the  Nazarene  made  cir- 
cuits, taking  preaching  tours  here  and  there  about 
Galilee  and  back  again,  whenever  and  wherever  the 
occasion  seemed  to  demand.  His  gift  in  religious 
oratory  quickly  developed  itself,  and  grew  with 
marked  effect  to  the  point  of  public  influence.  But 
he  gave  less  attention  to  preaching  at  this  time 
than  to  the  practice  of  the  truths  which  he 
preached.  His  methods  were  intensely  practical, 
and  showed  extraordinary  wisdom. 


142  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

On  the  Sabbath  and  on  the  special  synagogue 
days  of  the  week,  Monday  and  Thursday,  he  took  his 
proper  position  as  a  rabbi  of  eminence  in  whatever 
synagogue  was  inclined  to  receive  him,  and  grad- 
ually opened  the  gates  of  his  belief  to  outsiders. 
But  on  every  day  he  gave  himself  to  the  daily  needs 
of  every  class  of  society  ;  whether  of  his  own  or 
other  races,  whether  of  his  audiences  or  not,  never 
made  the  slightest  difference.  He  had  no  parish  ; 
he  confined  himself  to  no  ecclesiastical  ties ;  he 
swung  wide  of  every  parochial  as  much  as  of  every 
theological  tradition.  He  gave  his  growing  fame 
to  those  who  needed  him  most.  That  was  his 
simple  rule ;  from  it  he  never  deviated,  though  by 
it  he  was  often  embarrassed. 

First,  last,  always,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end, 
Jesus  Christ  sought  and  received  into  his  great 
heart  one  class  of  people,  —  the  most  miserable. 
Foremost  among  these  he  rated  the  sick.  No  per- 
son who  has  himself  known  the  deeps  below  the 
lowest  which  underlie  the  desolations  of  an  invalid 
life,  can  ever,  in  the  dreariest  dungeon  of  his  incar- 
cerated powers  and  joys,  forget  the  preferred  atten- 
tion given  by  the  greatest  Master  of  human  sympa- 
thy to  the  prisoners  of  pain.  It  is  not  possible  for 
the  well  and  active,  the  superficially  gay,  the  physi- 
cally comfortable,  to  rate  this  instinct  in  the  nature 
of  the  Nazarene  at  its  value. 

It  was  the  more  remarkable  because  he  himself 
was  a  well  man.  The  healthy  mind  in  the  healthy 
body  dowered  him.  He  had  the  poise  of  true  nerve 
in  wholesome  tissue.  He  inherited  no  taint,  no 


CHRIST  THE  HEALER 


THE  HEALER  143 

disorders.  A  pure  life,  simple  and  free,  passed 
in  manual  labor,  out-of-door  exercise,  and  close 
thought  had  wrought  its  ends.  The  carpenter  had 
been  a  man  of  mental  application  ;  the  student  had 
been  a  mechanic.  Mind  and  body  were  so  in  equi- 
poise that  the  overwrought  soul  whose  sensibilities, 
as  life  went  on,  quivered  under  the  most  terrible  of 
strains,  did  not  make  havoc  of  his  physical  system. 
His  organization  was  a  harmony,  strong  because  spot- 
less, sweet  because  strong,  wonderful  in  any  aspect. 

Eare  is  the  healthy  porson  who  is  patient  with  — 
rarer  if  he  understands  —  the  sick.  Jesus  showed 
an  almost  incredible  comprehension  of  the  conditions 
of  disease  ;  he  distinguished  with  amazing  skill  be- 
tween the  true  and  the  false  claims  on  sympathy ; 
he  never  confounded  controllable  hypochondria  with 
anything  more  serious,  nor  mistook  the  more  seri- 
ous for  the  manageable  delusion.  He  had  no  medi- 
cal education,  and  relied  upon  his  own  divination 
in  diagnosis,  and  his  own  personality  in  treatment. 
Almost  immediately  he  entered  upon  the  difficult 
and  dangerous  life  of  a  people's  healer.  Often  his 
cures  were  made  in  private,  or  even  in  secret ;  but 
one  of  his  first  was  a  wholly  public  affair. 

One  summer  morning,  soon  after  he  had  come  to 
Capernaum,  a  maniac  happened  in  the  synagogue, 
pushing  in  with  the  crowd  to  hear  the  new  Rabbi. 
The  poor  wretch,  moved  by  who  knew  what  psychical 
irritation  at  the  sight  of  the  pure  face  and  calm 
demeanor  of  the  young  preacher,  created  a  disturb- 
ance in  the  congregation,  and  made  himself  so 
annoying  that  it  became  necessary  to  put  him  out 


144 


THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 


unless  he  could  be  controlled.  A  thrill  ran  through 
the  audience  when  the  madman,  raving  at  Jesus, 
hurled  at  him  this  unexpected  and  awful  recognition  : 
"  I  know  thee,  Thou  Holy  One  of  God  !  "  The 
excitement  was  not  lessened  when  the  Rabbi  by  a 
few  remarkable  words  quieted  the  maniac,  and 
restored  him  suddenly  to  sanity. 

Belief  in  demonic  possession  was  as  much  a  fea- 
ture of  the  times  as  the  wearing  of  sandals  or  travel 
by  caravan.  The  spectators  and  the  lunatic  shared 
this  theory  of  his  condition  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  healer  did  not  combat  the  popular  idea ;  whether 
he  shared  it  or  not,  he  did  not  choose  to  explain. 
The  event  itself  aroused  a  wide  curiosity.  That 
same  day  occurred  another  incident  of  no  less  public 
interest.  The  healer's  gift  was  put  to  the  test  in  the 
family  of  a  favorite  disciple ;  an  elderly  woman  be- 
ing dangerously  ill  with  one  of  the  poisonous  fevers 
peculiar  to  the  Jordan  valley. 

When  the  woman  got  up  from  her  bed,  and,  with 
true  Jewish  feminine  meekness,  immediately  pre- 
pared the  supper  and  served  the 'masculine  members 
of  the  household,  the  effect  on  the  minds  of  those  who 
witnessed  the  cure  was  not  as  complex  as  it  would 
be  in  our  time,  but  it  was  sufficiently  startling.  In 
a  few  hours  the  lakeport  town  buzzed  with  it.  The 
well  told  the  sick,  the  sick  told  each  other ;  the  news 
was  discussed  in  society  and  markets,  on  deck  and 
on  shore,  and  received  on  solitary  pallets  by  sufferers 
who  had  been  cheated  of  hope  too  often  to  be  easily 
roused  to  exertion  or  trust.  The  tide  of  patients, 
which  had  already  set  in,  advanced  rapidly.  He 


THE  HEALER  145 

did  not  obtrude  his  healing  power,  but  rather  would 
have  preferred  to  shelter  it  for  a  time,  like  an  altar 
fire  which  must  not  be  rudely  fanned  too  soon. 

But  the  demands  upon  his  skill  and  sympathy 
grew  like  a  conflagration.  In  twenty-four  hours  he 
had  relieved  too  much  misery  for  his  own  comfort. 
That  Sabbath  evening  he  was  besieged.  Half  the 
coast  and  country  flung  themselves  upon  his  sympa- 
thy and  vitality.  Either  or  both  might  have  given 
way;  neither  did.  There  now  began  one  of  the 
greatest  conflicts  of  history,  and  one  that  has  never 
received  its  due  of  attention, — the  wrestle  between 
the  woe  of  humanity  and  the  organization  of  one 
merciful  man. 

At  this  early  stage  in  the  struggle,  while  his  vigor 
was  unimpaired  and  his  enthusiasm  fresh  and  strong, 
a  sparkling  success  gave  joy  to  his  achievements. 
His  patients  were  of  all  classes,  all  disorders,  all 
varieties  of  gratitude  or  ingratitude,  all  shades  of 
faith  in  the  healer  on  whose  skill  they  massed  them- 
selves without  pity.  Of  the  immense  number  it 
was  simply  recorded  that  "he  laid  his  hands  on 
every  one  of  them  and  healed  them." 

The  fishing  town  was  in  a  tumult  of  excitement. 
With  the  natural  selfishness  of  the  sick,  the  petu- 
lant demand  arose  that  Capernaum  should  claim 
and  control  the  full  benefit  of  his  skill.  He  was 
troubled  by  this  appeal.  Forcibly  to  tear  asunder 
the  ties  formed  between  relieving  health  and  depend- 
ent disease  is  one  of  the  hardest  of  tasks  for  any 
sympathetic  nature.  Such  ties  may  spring  up  in 
an  hour,  but  their  roots  strike  down  as  deep  as  time. 


146  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

When  Jesus  retired  to  rest  on  the  evening  of  that 
crowded  day  whose  cries  of  misery  and  whose  mur- 
mured blessings  reechoed  in  his  ears,  his  brain 
throbbed  and  his  heart  ached.  He  had  now  at  once 
to  meet  on  a  great  scale  the  perplexity  which  all 
agents  of  mercy  must  meet  on  a  small  one  ;  he  must 
choose  between  the  suffering ;  he  must  seem  to  neg- 
lect for  the  sake  of  remembering ;  he  must  omit  so 
much  misery  for  the  sake  of  so  much  more. 

Worn  as  he  was  with  excessive  drains  upon  his 
strength,  which  only  the  demanding  sick  can  make, 
he  slept  but  little.  Before  the  gray  of  the  dawn, 
while  yet  it  was  quite  dark,  he  stole  out  and  away  by 
the  shore.  The  water  lay  before  him  a  dull  and  oval 
map ;  the  outlines  of  the  surrounding  hills  through 
whose  black  gorges  swept  down  the  gusts  that  made 
the  lake  so  dangerous,  rose  frowning.  No  sign  of 
human  life  presented  itself.  Nature  wore  the  re- 
moteness and  bore  the  chill  of  the  grim  hour  between 
the  night  and  the  dawning,  when  the  strong  weaken 
and  the  weak  sink,  and  the  sick  die,  and  the  soul 
faints.  Nature  did  not  offer  to  help  him.  He  turned 
to  God. 

When  his  friends,  missing  him,  long  after  day- 
break, searched  and  found  him,  —  in  the  shelter  of 
groves,  with  his  face  to  the  lake  and  his  eyes  on 
the  rose-lit  skies,  and  his  delicate  lips  moving,  the 
young  healer  was  at  prayer. 

"  They  demand  thee,"  said  Simon,  when  his  sense 
of  decorum  would  allow  the  fisherman  to  speak. 
"  There  is  a  great  crowd  coming  on  behind  us.  All 


THE  HEALER  147 

men  seek  thee."  But  the  Nazarene  sadly  shook  his 
head.  The  fishermen  were  perplexed,  and  not  alto- 
gether pleased  by  his  reply  : 

"  I  go,"  he  said,  "  into  the  other  towns.  I  go  to 
preach."  The  healer  and  the  preacher  seemed  to 
arise  together  in  him  at  that  moment,  —  like  gen- 
erals of  different  phalanxes  in  the  same  army,  each 
concerned  for  his  own  department  of  responsibility ; 
both  for  the  same  cause  ;  both  under  Higher  Orders 
than  their  own  wills. 

He  went.  Leaving  the  piteous  clamor  of  ailing 
Capernaum  behind  him,  he  went  immediately,  with 
the  firmness  of  a  man  who  perceives  that  his  ellip- 
sis of  labor  is  broader  than  his  friends  suppose, 
upon  one  of  many  missionary  tours  in  which,  as 
master  of  two  professions,  his  intellect,  nerve,  and 
heart  were  taxed  to  the  full.  He  flung  himself  now 
headlong  into  this  exacting  dual  work,  dividing 
himself  passionately  between  the  sick  of  soul  and 
the  sick  of  body. 

His  cures  were  more  or  less  surprising,  but  none 
had  yet  reached  the  character  which  silences  the 
chronically  skeptical.  One  beautiful  and  extraor- 
dinary case  soon  mounted  to  this  degree  of  the 
wonderful,  and  the  report  of  it  took  possession  of 
Galilee  like  a  great  storm. 

There  came  to  him  one  day,  in  the  course  of  his 
travels,  a  skulking,  abhorrent  object.  Palestine  had 
her  full  share  of  malignant  diseases ;  but,  of  them 
all,  leprosy  headed  the  repugnant  list. 

A  victim  of  this  foul  plague  had  watched  for  days 
for  his  chance  to  get  near  enough  to  the  healer  to 


148  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

have  speech  with  him.  Succeeding  at  last,  he  inter- 
cepted Jesus  as  he  was  about  leaving  one  of  the 
cities  of  Galilee. 

Jesus  was  walking  with  his  eyes  on  the  sky, 
absorbed  in  thought.  Whether  he  did  not  notice, 
or  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  ruin  of  humanity  who 
had  been  dogging  his  steps  for  some  time,  pitiably 
afraid  to  show  himself,  and  more  afraid  not  to,  in 
either  case  the  Nazarene  did  not  speak. 

Popular  healers  from  the  earliest  to  the  latest 
day  have  been  in  the  habit  of  making  the  most  of 
their  gifts ;  have  exercised  them  fluently,  and  with- 
out any  marked  reluctance  to  the  excitement  created 
by  such  evidence  of  unusual  faculties.  Christ,  on 
the  contrary,  was  always  struggling  with  an  excess 
of  power,  —  to  keep  it  back,  to  hold  it  down,  to 
keep  it  in  the  place  that  he  thought  fit  for  it. 

He  did  not  seek  to  put  the  marvelous  on  exhibi- 
tion. He  held  it  in  reserve.  It  was  like  a  mighty 
force  in  leash.  So  far  he  would  let  it  out,  and  then 
recall  it.  So  much  he  would  do  with  it,  and  then 
stop  doing.  How  much  more  might  he  have  done  ? 
How  far  was  he  conscious  of  power  unused  ?  What 
magnificent  effort  did  it  require  to  harness  a  tremen- 
dous energy,  a  surplus  of  life  unshared,  uncompre- 
hended  by  other  men  !  As  these  young  experiences 
of  extraordinary  gift  grew  in  him,  and  along  with 
them  a  clearing  knowledge  of  that  side  of  his  own 
nature,  he  developed,  to  a  degree  which  excites  the 
profoundest  admiration,  one  of  the  final  signs  of 
superiority,  —  restraint  in  its  evidence. 

Many  crowds  had  driven  away  many  lepers  who 


THE  HEALER  149 

bad  sought  to  bring  their  piteous  lot  to  his  atten- 
tion. What  a  brilliant  deed  to  have  recalled  one 
of  these  outcast  wretches  by  a  look,  and  cured  him 
in  the  presence  of  a  couple  of  thousand  witnesses ! 
Jesus  had  seen  fit  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Now,  in  the  silence,  the  remoteness,  the  solitude, 
unseen  of  any  other  eye,  he  chose  for  the  first  time 
to  test  his  power  upon  the  malignant  contagion. 
Had  he  any  secret  doubts  about  his  ability  to  con- 
trol it  ?  He  had  now  acquired  an  unavoidable  con- 
fidence in  himself ;  it  acted  on  his  power,  and  his 
power  reacted  on  his  confidence.  Acute  sickness 
had  proved  itself  his  servant,  and  hereditary  disease 
his  slave.  Still  —  a  leper  ! 

The  repulsive  being,  tortured  out  of  all  semblance 
to  fair  human  form  and  flesh,  suddenly  shuffled  like 
an  image  of  some  demonic  dream  ahead  of  the 
Kabbi,  and  desperately  barred  the  path.  He  lifted 
his  mutilated  arms  and  hands.  A  hoarse  wail  came 
from  his  hideous  lips : 

"  Cure  me,  —  even  me/" 

Jesus  stopped,  and  gently  regarded  the  leper. 
His  fathomless  pity  arose  and  flooded  his  face. 

"  Thou  canst  if  thou  wilt,"  observed  the  miserable 
creature  half  reproachfully. 

By  all  the  laws  of  church  and  state,  the  two  were 
forbidden  to  approach  each  other,  and  the  leper  did 
not  further  defy  the  law. 

The  healer,  on  the  contrary,  did  not  recognize  it. 
He  advanced  directly,  and  put  out  his  hand.  He 
seemed  deeply  touched  by  this  cry  of  mingled  re- 
proach and  entreaty,  as  if  he  could  not  bear  to  be 
misunderstood  by  so  wretched  a  man. 


150  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Such  desolation  of  suffering  acted  upon  him  like 
a  law  of  mechanics.  Whatever  the  cost,  he  had 
to  relieve ;  whatever  the  consequence,  he  could 
not  refuse.  Such  was  the  government  of  his 
nature. 

Without  a  gesture  of  repugnance,  he  laid  his 
cool,  clean  touch  upon  the  other's  crumbling  flesh. 
The  outcast  of  contagion  looked  in  vain  for  the  ex- 
pression of  disgust  that  he  was  used  to  seeing  on 
the  faces  of  well  and  blessed  men.  Not  a  shadow 
crossed  the  eyes  of  the  Nazarene  :  they  were  like 
stars  become  human;  iiieffable  compassion  rayed 
from  them,  —  only  that. 

"  I  will,"  he  said  heartily,  as  one  man  speaks  to 
another  when  he  means  kindly  by  him  ;  "  I  will !  " 
Then  rang  out  the  vibrant  tone  of  command  pecu- 
liar to  himself,  and  familiar  now  to  half  the  sick  of 
Galilee : 

"  Be  clean !  " 

Was  it  moments  ?  Was  it  hours  ?  Was  it  weeks  ? 
The  leper  could  not  have  told.  He  had  fallen  pros- 
trate in  the  dust.  He  arose  slowly.  Where  was 
the  horror  of  all  those  years,  —  half  a  lifetime  of 
loathsomeness  to  himself  and  to  all  humankind,  — 
whither  had  it  betaken  itself  ?  What  had  become 
of  the  shame,  the  anguish,  the  defilement?  The 
infected  man  looked  for  one  revolting  sign  and 
another  of  his  acquaintance  with  disgrace.  Was  he 
gone  blind,  or  maniac,  that  he  could  not  find  them  ? 
Gently  through  his  body,  that  had  been  the  den  of 
torments,  the  sense  of  freedom  from  pain  and  from 


THE  HEALER  151 

impurity,  strange  as  the  laws  of  a  foreign  organism, 
began  to  stir. 

The  Nazarene  stood  smiling.  He  seemed  to  be 
charged  with  joy.  The  happiness  of  the  other  looked 
a  faint  thing  beside  his  own.  It  was  as  if  he  him- 
self had  suffered  everything  that  went  before,  —  as 
if  all  that  history  of  woe  had  been  his  own.  So  ex- 
quisite his  sympathy  that  the  very  thrill  of  being 
healed  seemed  to  run  through  him.  The  delight  of 
healing  was  but  a  portion  of  his  beautiful  pleasure. 
He  felt  every  pang  that  he  had  removed,  and  all  the 
bliss  that  he  had  given.  Gladness  like  the  gladness 
of  a  God  shone  all  over  him.  It  was  one  of  the 
happiest  moments  of  his  life. 

"  Go,"  he  said  with  a  low  and  joyous  laugh. 
"  Find  the  priest  and  be  purified." 

Now  he  who  had  defied  in  this  act  of  mercy  every 
ecclesiastical  law  relating  to  contagious  diseases 
which  as  a  Jew  and  a  rabbi  he  was  bound  to  respect, 
loyally  enough  deferred  to  the  statutes  of  his  church 
and  of  his  land. 

A  stranger  thing  he  did,  for  he  added  the  peremp- 
tory and  totally  unexpected  order  that  the  manner 
of  the  cure  should  be  kept  a  secret  between  the 
patient  and  the  healer. 

With  every  intention  to  obey  the  Rabbi,  the 
cleansed  man  went  his  ways.  But  joy  and  the  curi- 
osity of  his  friends  was  too  much  for  him.  His  head 
was  turned  with  delight.  The  novelty  of  health 
bounded  through  his  nerves  like  delirium.  Leap- 
ing, laughing,  praying,  singing  as  he  ran,  he  bab- 


152  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

bled  of  his  good  fortune.  He  had  no  more  power 
to  keep  the  name  of  the  Nazarene  out  of  the  affair 
than  a  child  to  keep  a  secret  from  his  mother,  and 
the  whole  town  knew  it  before  nightfall. 

The  consequence  was  precisely  what  Jesus  had 
foreseen,  and  what  he  had  especially  tried  to  avoid. 
Before  he  could  evade  the  popular  excitement,  it 
had  rolled  up  against  him,  —  a  wave  of  suffering, 
vast  and  dark.  He  was  immediately  overwhelmed 
with  the  entreaties  of  the  incurable  and  disfigured 
sick,  who,  if  they  could  not  reach  him  in  any  other 
way,  crawled  upon  the  sands  to  his  feet,  and  lay 
there,  piteous  and  hideous,  until  he  considered  their 
plight. 

The  state  of  medical  education  in  the  East  at  that 
time  was  such  as  to  emboss  the  methods  of  Christ 
in  strong  relief  upon  a  background  of  almost  in- 
credible folly  and  charlatanry. 

The  heads  of  mice,  the  brains  of  an  owl,  the  eyes 
of  a  crab,  the  fat  of  a  viper,  a  bat,  a  grasshopper, 
might  be  among  the  popular  remedies.  If  a  man 
had  a  cold  in  the  head,  his  physician  ordered  him  to 
kiss  the  nose  of  a  mule.  For  certain  disorders  one 
carried  about  a  peculiar  species  of  small  snake  re- 
ported to  possess  the  accomplishment  of  traveling 
backwards.  The  cuttings  of  vines  not  four  years 
old,  burned  in  seven  ditches,  were  believed  to  con- 
tain peculiar  therapeutic  virtues,  provided  one  sat 
in  the  smoke  of  the  seven  ditches,  each  in  turn. 

Such  a  materia  medica  was  the  offering  of  the 
regular  schools  to  suffering  humanity.  At  such  a 
stage  and  into  such  a  phase  of  medical  science,  the 


THE  HEALER  153 

healing  gift  of  the  Nazarene  entered  quietly.  Its 
simplicity,  its  good  sense,  its  delicacy,  its  efficacy, 
its  amazing  results  threatened  to  overturn  the  thera- 
peutics of  his  time.  The  physicians  were  derisive, 
then  disgruntled,  then  alarmed.  Their  consultations 
were  neglected ;  their  clienteles  thinned  out ;  their 
patients  deserted  them  for  the  new  healer.  The 
danger  was  that  the  sick  public  would  go  over  en 
masse  to  the  courageous  and  singular  man  whose 
prescriptions  required  of  his  patients  only  clean 
lives  and  faith  in  himself.  The  most  learned  and 
fashionable  physicians  in  Palestine  were  set  at 
naught.  A  growing  uneasiness  ran  through  their 
ranks.  Before  he  had  aroused  the  serious  opposi- 
tion of  the  clergy  to  which  the  heretic  preacher  was 
inevitably  fated,  the  humane  and  gentle  man  who 
began  his  life's  work  by  such  a  love  of  the  sick  and 
such  a  sorrow  for  their  sufferings  as  has  never  been 
equaled  in  the  records  of  human  sympathy,  brought 
down  upon  himself  the  enmity  of  one  of  the  most 
jealous  classes  in  society.  He  had  to  meet  the  an- 
tagonism of  the  whole  medical  profession. 

The  absence  of  superstition  in  the  nature  of 
Jesus  was  something  that  never  ceases  to  astonish. 
Simply  reared  in  a  mountain  village,  in  a  secluded 
youth,  in  a  devout  family,  how  easy  for  him  to  have 
conformed,  to.  have  believed,  like  other  men  !  But 
freedom  of  thought  was  the  condition  of  existence  to 
him.  Far  above  his  contemporaries,  looking  off  and 
away  at  an  altitude  in  which  they  could  not  breathe, 
he  quickly  took  the  broadest  view  of  any  practical 
question.  He  never  did  an  ignorant  thing. 


154  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Against  the  medical  superstitions  of  his  times  he 
directed  himself  with  a  progressive  independence 
which  commands  the  keenest  admiration.  Perceiv- 
ing that  the  people  who  appealed  to  him  suffered 
more  from  the  abuses  of  the  profession  than  from 
the  effects  of  disease,  he  took  high  ground.  He 
antedated  by  two  thousand  years  the  efforts  of  mod- 


ern science  to  reduce  the  abominations  of  a  be- 
nighted past  in  the  practice  of  medicine.  He  threw 
away  all  drugs,  all  nostrums,  all  nauseous  traditions, 
all  the  disgusting  superstitions  of  the  age,  and 
brought  his  patients  up  to  pure  living  and  high 
thinking  as  his  simple  code  of  therapeutics. 

It  is  never  to  be  forgotten  that  he  added  to  these 
principles  in  the  control  of  disease  the  forces  of  a 
personality  that  stands  apart,  beyond  reduplica- 
tion. The  wisest  and  most  courageous  of  the  mod- 
ern schools  does  not  hope  for  a  similar  professional 
success ;  only  the  purest  dwells  upon  it.  But  he 
who  studies  that  supreme  achievement  learns  his 
subtle  formula,  if  he  will,  from  the  "  irregular " 
Hebrew  physician  whose  manly  faith  in  God  was 
the  first  and  last  condition  of  curing,  and  whose 
patients  found  that  something  not  unlike  it  was  the 
inexorable  condition  of  cure. 

An  opportunity  presented  itself  for  an  interest- 
ing thrust  at  a  favorite  popular  superstition  involv- 
ing both  medicine  and  theology,  and  requiring  a 
double  amount  of  courage  on  the  part  of  him  who 
dared  to  attack  it. 

The  successes  of  many  healers  are  largely  con- 
fined to  disorders  of  the  nervous  system.  The 


THE   HEALER  155 

cures  of  Jesus  were  not  limited  at  all  to  these,  but 
he  had  performed  his  share  of  such.  An  impres- 
sive and  dramatic  scene  had  taken  place  in  Galilee, 
at  the  home  of  his  friend  Peter,  a  man  in  comfort- 
able circumstances,  whose  house  was  of  some  size, 
and  accommodated  both  audiences  and  patients  in 
considerable  numbers.  The  Eabbi  had  preached  in 
the  house,  under  the  gallery,  and  the  crowd  over- 
flowed into  the  street.  Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of 
his  sermon,  there  descended  at  his  feet,  mysteri- 
ously let  down  from  overhead,  a  paralyzed  person, 
whose  muscular  and  ingenious  friends  had  carried 
him  up  the  outside  stairs  of  the  house,  or  had  taken 
"  the  road  of  the  roofs  "  from  a  neighbor's  ;  so  they 
stole  a  march  upon  the  healer's  attention,  perhaps 
by  tearing  up  the  earth  and  the  brush  from  the 
gallery  roof,  and  forcing  a  space  large  enough  for 
their  purpose.  As  this  image  of  woe  fell  flat  at  his 
feet,  the  preacher's  voice  hushed.  Only  the  eyes  of 
the  patient  could  move,  and  these  clasped  the  per- 
son of  the  most  merciful  man  whom  Galilee  had  ever 
known  or  heard  of.  The  entreaty  was  so  piteous 
that  the  lip  of  Jesus  trembled.  He  could  not  go  on 
with  his  discourse  till  he  had  cured  the  patient. 

The  memory  of  this  scene  occurred  to  him  poign- 
antly one  Sabbath,  when,  being  in  Jerusalem  at 
an  ecclesiastical  feast,  he  walked  out  alone  to  one 
of  the  "  wells  of  healing "  in  which  the  East 
abounded.  This  spot  was  not  far  from  the  market, 
and  easily  accessible.  It  was  eminent  for  its  legen- 
dary cures,  and  sure  to  be  frequented  by  people 
suffering  from  those  forms  of  nervous  disease  which 


156  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

forbid  a  patient  to  get  too  far  from  home,  but 
are  sure  to  take  him  somewhere  in  a  whimsical 
search  for  health.  The  place  went  by  the  name  of 
Bethesda,  and  was  a  pretty  pool,  picturesquely 
guarded  by  porches.  It  was  one  of  the  intermit- 
tent springs  whose  rise  and  fall  was  attributed  by 
the  ignorance  of  the  times  to  supernatural  agency. 
The  waters  were  disturbed  at  irregular  intervals, 
and  only  the  poor  wretch  who  pushed  his  way  in  at 
the  expense  of  his  weaker  companions,  and  at  the 
precise  moment  when  the  spring  began  to  swell,  had 
any  chance. 

Jesus  stood  beside  Bethesda,  and  it  was  the  Sab- 
bath,—  the  awful  Sabbath,  in  which  a  man  was 
forbidden  to  carry  fuel,  a  rug,  a  bundle,  or  to  lift 
the  sick  upon  their  beds.  Only  the  dying  could 
be  carried  by  good  Jews.  A  medical  cure  was  for- 
bidden. Jesus  stood  watching  the  mass  of  misery 
that  had  accumulated  at  the  pool.  His  now  prac- 
ticed eye  perceived  among  those  wretched  people  a 
large  proportion  of  nervous  patients,  and  among 
them  he  readily  recognized  the  worst  and  most 
genuine  case.  A  helpless  man,  disabled  for  thirty- 
eight  years,  and  deserted  by  his  friends  who  had 
grown  tired  of  taking  care  of  him,  lay  sadly  in  one 
of  the  porches  by  himself.  The  ruder  and  more 
restless  sick  complained  and  quarreled  around  him. 
He  alone  lay  quite  still  and  acquiescent.  The  pa- 
tience born  from  long-accepted  despair  had  settled 
upon  him.  His  drawn  face  demanded  nothing  ;  his 
wasted  hands  made  no  appeal.  His  eyes  were  dull 
with  endurance  that  had  passed  the  stage  of  fever- 


THE  HEALER  157 

ishness,  hope,  or  fear.  He  lay  waiting  for  the 
chance  which  had  never  come,  —  which  would  never 
come.  This  was  the  sickest  man  at  the  spring,  and 
the  only  one  sure  to  receive  no  attention. 

Jesus  went  directly  to  him.  The  two  were  apart. 
No  one  noticed  the  Rabbi  who  came  to  see  Bethesda, 
a  common  resort  for  country  folk  visiting  Jerusalem 
and  anxious  to  see  the  sights.  Jesus  entered  at 
once  into  conversation  with  the  disabled  man,  who 
had  attracted  his  interest.  He  did  not  insult  the 
nervous  patient  by  expressing  doubts  as  to  the  real- 
ity of  his  disorder.  He  did  not  prejudge  hysterical 
symptoms,  or  underestimate  the  nature  of  a  suffer- 
ing only  too  evident  to  his  refined  perception.  An 
ordinary  physician  might  easily  have  turned  this 
case  off  as  one  of  the  Bethesda  hypochondriacs. 

The  Galilean  healer  was  too  sensitive  for  that. 
His  mind  was  too  keen  to  make  this  blunder,  be- 
cause it  was  too  fine.  Gently  drawing  from  the 
poor  man  his  story,  which  was  not  altogether  that 
of  an  innocent  sufferer,  he  sorrowed  for  the  patient 
more  than  he  blamed.  His  heart  ached  at  the  plain- 
tive and  uncomplaining,  — 

"  Sir,  all  the  others  can  get  into  the  water,  but 
there  is  nobody  to  help  me.  Before  I  can  get 
down  "  — 

But  there  the  stranger  interrupted  him.  The 
morbid,  motionless  man  clinging  to  his  superstition 
because  he  had  nothing  better,  looked,  startled,  up. 
What  words  were  these?  What  face  was  that? 
What  fire,  half  of  indignation,  half  of  pity,  played 
across  those  gentle  features  ?  Why  did  the  Rabbi 
shake  his  head  ? 


158  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

What  ?  Not  believe  in  the  waters  —  not  in  the 
Bethesda  waters,  —  after  all  ?  Believe  only  in  this 
face,  this  voice,  this  sweetest  sympathy  ever  found 
in  all  a  lonely,  miserable  life  ?  With  a  rush  of  emo- 
tion, it  suddenly  seemed  to  the  neglected  invalid 
that  if  he  had  been  dead  he  could  have  lived  had 
this  man  spoken  to  him,  had  he  looked  at  him  so. 

"  Take  it  up !  "  cried  the  stranger,  pointing  to  the 
bed.  "Carry  it.  Walk!" 

With  this  authoritative  order  he  dismissed  the 
case,  and  took  himself  hurriedly  away. 

Later  in  the  day  Jesus  met  his  cured  patient 
accidentally,  and  exchanged  with  him  a  few  words. 
But  these  were  not  many,  for  the  story  was  now 
public  property,  and  a  curious  crowd  crushed  upon 
the  two. 

A  sullen  excitement  had  set  in  over  the  case. 
Both  had  defied  the  law ;  the  healer  had  wrought 
a  cure,  and  the  invalid  had  carried  a  bed  upon  the 
Sabbath  day. 

Ecclesiastical  feeling  ran  high.  A  timid  man 
would  have  retreated  from  it.  Jesus,  on  the  con- 
trary, went  straight  to  the  Temple,  where  he  was 
sure  to  meet  the  full  brunt  of  it.  His  object  in 
coming  to  Jerusalem  at  that  time  had  been  no  light 
one.  He  was  no  mere  traveler,  no  comfortable 
worshiper.  Strange  and  strong  as  the  story  of  his 
career  had  been  for  the  last  few  months,  the  move- 
ment of  his  own  nature  had  been  stranger  and 
stronger.  He  felt  the  imperious  need  of  a  broader 
scope.  Braver  deeds  beckoned  him.  Deeper  dan- 
gers called  him.  Beautiful  Galilee  with  her  listen- 


THE  HEALER  159 

ing  synagogues  and  her  happy  convalescents  was 
not  the  world.  Problems  of  church  and  state  trou- 
bled him. 

The  character  of  his  own  peculiar  mission  asked 
him  awful  questions.  These  gave  him  no  rest.  He 
came,  and  he  came  alone,  definitely  to  test  the 
attitude  of  the  capital  towards  himself.  His  method 
of  doing  this  was  entirely  his  own. 

In  the  cause  of  humanity  he  had  boldly  broken 
the  Sabbath  laws,  ancient  as  Moses,  precious  as 
Israel,  rigid  as  death.  In  the  cause  of  common 
sense  he  had  treated  a  superstition  dear  to  Jerusa- 
lem with  unpardonable  contempt.  Could  he  not 
have  cured  his  man  on  any  other  of  six  days  out  of 
seven?  Could  he  not  have  done  it  at  some  time 
when  the  spring  did  rise?  All  ecclesiastical  laws 
and  pathological  precedents  he  had  simply  ignored. 
The  clergy,  the  people,  and  the  government  were 
equally  offended.  Not  fully  prepared  for  the  conse- 
quences, Jesus  calmly  awaited  them.  If  he  felt 
any  agitation,  he  did  not  show  it.  In  the  Temple 
he  serenely  defended  himself.  A  mob  was  the 
result. 

The  very  madness  of  joy  looked  at  him  from  the 
eyes  of  one  adoring  man,  —  the  escaped  prisoner  of 
thirty-eight  years  of  misery.  He  could  see  his  Be- 
thesda  patient  excitedly  arguing  the  case  with  scribe 
and  priest  and  Pharisee.  But  the  church  frowned 
on  the  heretic.  The  people  imitated  the  church. 
His  own  discourse  in  the  Temple,  a  powerful  and 
fearless  address,  had  made  everything  worse.  The 
country  Rabbi  became  in  an  hour  dangerously  un- 


160  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

popular.  With  hurt  surprise,  with  pathetic  wonder 
that  left  no  room  for  fear,  Jesus  perceived  that  he 
stood  in  the  Temple  of  his  race,  in  the  holy  city  of 
his  heart,  in  actual  peril  of  his  life. 

He  had  come  up  from  the  country  filled  with  no 
man  knew  what  secret  hopes,  with  what  growing 
exaltations  and  exultations  too  pure  for  comprehen- 
sion by  his  nearest  friends.  He  had  come  up  trust- 
fully, looking  for  some  cheerful  signs  of  the  popular 
feeling  under  which  he  might  map  out  the  plan  of 
his  work.  But  Jerusalem  met  him  with  a  malicious 
rebuff,  and  dismissed  him  with  a  murderous  threat. 

His  independence  of  conviction  soon  brought  more 
trouble  upon  him.  Having  heartily  allowed  his 
hungry  disciples  to  pick  corn  on  the  Seventh  Day, 
he  found  that  he  had  committed  an  unpardonable 
offense.  Jesus  defended  his  innovation  warmly  and 
authoritatively.  "  I  am  Lord  of  the  Sabbath,"  he 
said. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   PREACHER  ;    AND   THE   DEAD 

WHATEVER  had  been  his  disappointment  in  the 
results  of  his  experiment  at  Jerusalem,  Jesus  did 
not  express  or  cultivate  it.  He  came  back  thought- 
fully to  Galilee,  —  impulsive,  fickle,  lovable  Galilee, 
where  he  was  affectionately  trusted  and  perplexedly 
admired,  —  and  drowned  himself  again  in  his  work. 
With  that  noticeable  good  sense  which  characterized 
all  his  public  movements,  and  with  his  habit  of 
following  the  clear  duty  instead  of  urging  the  doubt- 
ful, he  resumed  his  opportunity  among  the  warm- 
hearted lake-people  and  their  inland  neighbors. 
Their  welcome  was  genuine  enough,  and  encouraged 
him,  but  it  never  flattered  him.  He  was  now 
approaching  the  height  of  his  fame.  He  had  not 
fully  realized  its  proportions  before  he  left  home. 
His  return  from  the  capital  to  the  country  revealed 
to  him  some  new  and  pleasant  aspects  of  his  growing 
hold  upon  the  people.  He  accepted  his  popularity 
with  unapproachable  simplicity,  serenity,  and  mod- 
esty. He  gave  no  evidence  of  one  dizzy  hour.  The 
moral  vertigo  which  confuses  many  great  men  at 
the  whirl  of  their  success  did  not  perceptibly  affect 
him.  If  he  ever  felt  it,  he  gave  no  sign  of  doing 
so.  The  giddiness  was  conquered  before  it  reached 
the  poise, 


162  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

This  was  the  more  to  be  noticed  because  he  had  a 
kind  of  temptation  to  lose  his  balance,  which  is  only 
to  be  measured  by  some  appreciation  of  the  eminence 
that  he  refused  himself.  Beside  it,  that  which  he 
allowed  himself  was  a  lowly  success.  This  fact, 
which  time  enunciated  with  a  terrible  distinctness, 
began  now  to  murmur  to  his  consciousness. 

Galilee  was  at  his  feet.  Just  then  he  could  have 
done  anything  with  Galilee.  The  neighboring  pro- 
vinces overflowed  on  the  lake  side  for  his  sake ; 
Judea  sought  him  and  studied  him ;  and  even  Je- 
rusalem had  her  delegates  at  his  mass  meetings. 
The  clergy  and  officers  of  his  church  had  begun 
to  observe  him.  His  audiences  were  numbered  by 
thousands.  His  -patients  were  never  numbered. 
Sickness,  misery,  sin,  and  shame  swept  against  his 
heart  as  the  winds  swept  Gennesaret,  whose  shape 
was  like  a  harp.  Both  audiences  and  patients  were 
increasing  with  appalling  force.  He  could  get  little 
sleep.  Rest  was  impossible.  He  had  scarcely  time 
to  eat,  and  his  nervous  vigor  was  so  taxed  that  food 
was  taken  with  difficulty.  It  had  become  necessary 
for  him  to  own  or  to  control  a  boat  for  his  frequent 
trips  across  the  lake,  and  that  he  might  push  out  into 
the  water  and  so  use  the  deck  as  a  pulpit,  putting  a 
space  between  himself  and  the  masses  which  would 
otherwise  have  disabled  him  from  addressing  them. 
Wherever  he  went,  he  took  and  left  crowds.  He 
was  trampled  by  humanity.  He  was  almost  crushed 
by  its  near  proximity.  The  pressure  of  its  woe 
closed  upon  him  till  he  could  have  cried  out  for 
agony  from  his  delicate  perception  of  what  that 


THE  PREACHER;  AND  THE  DEAD    163 

meant.  The  sense  of  its  taint  bruised  against  his 
exquisite  purity  till  he  could  have  shrunk  away  for- 
ever, from  sheer  moral  recoil,  out  of  repulsive  con- 
tact. He  never  did.  He  had  not  an  atom  of  false 
sensitiveness.  His  delicacy  had  not  a  morbid  nerve 
in  it.  He  took  the  world  as  he  found  it.  But  he 
did  not,  he  would  not,  lie  could  not  leave  it  so. 
Where  he  was,  vice  hung  its  head.  Where  he  trod, 
virtue  was  the  only  comfortable  thing.  Misery  crept 
like  a  child  to  his  arms.  Assuagement  was  in  his 
touch,  because  pity  and  power  held  the  balance  of 
his  impulses.  His  life  was  as  foreign  to  every  con- 
ception of  life  held  by  the  people  of  his  times 
as  the  unknown  continents  of  the  western  hemi- 
sphere. He  passed  through  Palestine  like  a  new 
law  of  moral  science,  which  men  obeyed  without 
under  standin  g. 

He  had  been  but  a  short  time  at  home  again 
when  he  found  his  work  so  grown  upon  his  hands 
that  it  was  impossible  to  continue  it  without  respon- 
sible assistants  and  more  of  them. 

The  selection  of  these  cost  him  much  thought  and 
care.  More  depended  upon  it  than  was  perceived 
by  any  spectator.  He  had  already  given  offense  by 
numbering  among  his  especial  friends  a  collector  of 
the  Roman  government.  With  his  fearless  inde- 
pendence he  had  never  paid  the  least  attention  to 
the  feeling  caused  by  this  expression  of  indiffer- 
ence to  Jewish  prejudices,  and  the  collector  proved 
to  be  one  of  his  most  valuable  men.  He  chose  the 
subordinates  he  preferred  for  qualities  best  appreci- 
ated by  himself.  Out  of  them  all  there  was  but  one 


164  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

failure.  An  unhappy  choice  could  hardly  be  called 
a  mistake,  which  was  plainly  as  necessary  to  the 
action  of  the  mighty  drama  in  which  he  moved  as 
treason,  death,  or  heart-break  to  the  motion  of  a 
Greek  tragedy. 

The  night  before  he  completed  the  organization 
which  was  the  nucleus  of  the  great  faith  that  bears 
his  name,  he  spent  in  that  solitary,  solemn  manner 
which  marked  all  the  critical  decisions  or  events 
of  his  life.  Northward  of  Capernaum,  in  the  hilly 
region,  he  knew  and  loved  many  lonely  haunts. 
Thither  he  went,  and  there  he  wandered.  In  thought 
and  prayer  he  wore  the  whole  night  out.  The  lake 
that  he  loved  was  at  his  feet ;  the  stars,  acquaintances 
to  other  men,  but  comrades  to  him,  were  marshaled 
above  his  head ;  the  stillness  that  he  craved,  and 
could  never  command  by  day,  stole  to  his  nerves. 

Darkness  without  hid  those  hours  of  darkness 
within,  of  which  he  told  no  man.  What  doubts, 
that  he  knew  not  whether  to  acknowledge  or  to 
ignore,  beset  him!  What  fearful  questions  catechized 
him  !  What  forebodings  tortured  him  !  How  often 
did  he  ask  himself  if  he  had  mistaken  himself,  —  if 
he  were  deluded  about  it  all,  —  if  his  own  conscious- 
ness rang  true !  Had  he  misread  the  signs  of  mere 
popularity  for  the  will  of  heaven  ?  Did  he  hear  in 
the  clamor  of  men  the  voice  of  God?  The  first 
trouble  in  the  wilderness  by  Jordan,  the  first  moral 
emergency,  —  was  it  his  next  and  next,  and  always 
his  until  the  last  ?  Was  it  the  crudest  difficulty  of 
his  solitary  mission  that  he  was  never  quite  sure, 
without  interruption  in  his  own  conviction,  of  his 


CHRIST   BY  THE  SEA 


THE  PREACHER;  AND  THE  DEAD    165 

commission  from  God  ?  Then  was  it  the  grandest 
achievement  of  his  life  that  he  went  straight  on 
doing  the  one  thing  of  which  he  was  sure,  and  leav- 
ing the  nature  of  his  mission  to  take  care  of  itself. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  the  sick  were  wretched, 
and  that  he  could  heal  them.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  men  were  evil,  and  that  he  could  make  them 
better.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  could  comfort 
the  unhappy.  There  was  no  more  doubt  that  he 
could  preach  and  teach  and  heal  than  there  was  that 
he  suffered  and  was  misunderstood.  Was  he  the 
Chosen,  the  Wonderful,  the  Anointed,  the  Messiah  v 
of  his  people  ?  Was  he  the  Son  of  his  God  ?  The 
answer  to  this  awful  question  lay  in  the  lips  of 
Jehovah.  There  were  black  hours  when  those  lips 
seemed  sealed  for  him  who  hung  upon  their  motion 
for  the  breath  of  his  being.  There  were  bright 
hours  when  whispers  inarticulate  to  common  ears 
inexpressibly  comforted  the  lonely  man. 

When  he  came  down  from  the  heights  at  dawn, 
his  friends,  accustomed  to  read  the  changes  of  his 
dear  and  noble  face,  —  and  that  with  some  affection- 
ate skill,  as  they  read  the  weather  on  the  Galilean 
lake,  —  were  moved  by  his  appearance.  Plainly 
this  had  been  one  of  the  nights  when  he  had  prayed 
almost  to  exhaustion.  Lines  of  sleeplessness  and 
intense  feeling  were  cut  upon  his  face.  Yet  he 
did  not  look  unhappy.  Wan  as  he  was,  he  smiled 
warmly.  Joy  came  down  the  hillsides  with  him. 

The  plain  men,  who  loved  him  better  than  they 
understood  him,  connected  in  their  own  minds  this 
night  of  vigil  and  of  prayer  with  the  solemn  cere- 


166  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

inony  through  which  he  immediately  called  them  to 
lifelong  allegiance  to  himself.  It  was  a  tremendous 
occasion  to  them.  It  was  a  serious  one  to  him. 
But  they  soon  perceived  that  he  had  needed  extra 
strength  for  another  purpose.  That  night  of  solemn 
preparation  was  the  prelude  to  a  great  public  ad- 
dress. 

He  and  his  twelve  friends  had  scarcely  turned 
their  grave  faces  from  one  another,  each  awed  with 
his  own  share  in  the  important  compact  through 
which  they  had  just  passed,  when  the  people,  crowd- 
ing up  and  on,  crushed  to  the  Rabbi's  feet.  He 
was  so  encompassed  by  them  that  he  could  not  have 
been  heard  or  seen  ;  and,  after  protesting  gently  but 
in  vain,  he  withdrew  from  them  and  climbed  to  an 
elevation  that  commanded  the  crowd. 

It  now  contained  a  vast  number  of  persons,  — 
how  many  no  one  cared  to  count.  For  an  undi- 
verted interest  centred  upon  the  preacher.  He  did 
not  always  follow  the  custom  of  the  Jewish  rabbi, 
who  sat  while  he  instructed.  On  certain  occasions 
his  impulse  drew  him  to  his  feet.  But  this  was  not 
one  of  them.  At  the  height  on  which  he  was,  it  was 
quite  possible  to  assume  the  usual  ministerial  pos- 
ture, and  still  control  his  audience.  This  was  now  so 
large  that  he  needed  to  make  some  effort  to  be  heard 
in  the  open  air.  Yet  he  seemed  to  make  none.  His 
enunciation  was  remarkably  distinct,  and  was  under- 
stood by  the  uttermost  straggler  on  the  edge  of  the 
crowd. 

His  voice  was  carried  to  a  surprising  distance.  It 
had  a  clear,  vibrant  quality,  and  rang;  its  vowel 


TIM:  m-:.u'iiKK;  AND  TIIK  DEAD       ic? 

sounds  were  exquisite  ;  it  was  music  articulate.  It 
\\as  a  voice  to  love,  to  long  for,  to  follow,  to  obey, 
to  recall  long  after  it  had  ceased,  as  one  recalls 

indescribable  pleasure;  it  was  the  organ  only  to  bo 
commanded  by  ;i  pure,  high  soul  united  to  a  power-. 
ful  intellect. 

Yet,  though  it  could  hold  an  audience  of  thou. 
sands  of  restless  people,  the  voice  of  Jesus  was  not 
loud.  Its  timbre  was  one  of  marvelous  delicacy. 
Its  lowest  tone  —  and  he  preferred  the  low  tones  — 
could  be  heard  where  a  coarser  man  would  have 
been  obliged  to  strain  all  the  functions  of  the  throat 
and  lungs.  He  spoke  with  perfect  ease;  as  if  he 
were  not  obliged  to  think  how  he  spoke. 

lie  began  that  morning  in  a  low,  penetrating 
voice.  It  was  music,  pity,  and  power  in  one.  The 
lightest  listener  in  the  audience  sobered  before  the 
sound,  and  the  lowest  shriveled ;  but  the  most  mis- 
erable wept  for  very  comfort.  Before  their  slow 
minds  had  begun  to  grasp  the  significance  of  what 
he  said,  his  hearers  were  fascinated  by  the  way  in 
which  he  said  it.  It  was  one  of  the  voices  that 
predestine  the  career  of  an  orator.  It  took  but  a 
few  moments  for  a  cultivated  observer  of  the  throng, 
reflecting  dispassionately  as  he  studied  the  scene,  to 
decide  that  a  man  witli  that  voice,  and  that  presence, 
was  created  to  be  the  most  famous  religious  orator 
of  his  times.  How  could  the  imagination  of  any 
Hebrew  or  Roman,  Greek  or  Persian,  of  that  day, 
compass  the  knowledge  that  he  was  listening  to  the 
greatest  preacher  of  history?  Such  the  Rabbi  f rom 
Na/areth  has  proved  himself  to  be.  His  discourse 


168  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

that  morning  on  the  rocks  outside  of  Capernaum 
has  gone  far  to  give  him  the  claim  to  this  title. 

It  was  and  remains,  seen  across  the  span  of  civ- 
ilization, and  judged  by  the  standards  of  the  severest 
modern  criticism,  the  great  masterpiece  of  religious1 
address. 

Contrasted  with  his  first  youthful  and  interrupted 
sermon  in  the  Nazareth  synagogue,  this  discourse  in- 
dicated a  natural  but  obvious  growth  in  the  preacher. 
All  hesitation,  experimentation,  were  behind  him. 
He  preached  like  a  man  sure  of  himself  and  of  his 
subject.  His  facility  of  expression  had  become 
more  marked.  His  increased  intellectual  force  had 
an  iron  grip.  His  logic  closed  like  lock  and  key. 
His  style  had  become  polished  and  brilliant.  His 
persuasive  power  was  irresistible.  Who,  reading 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  with  anything  like  atten- 
tion, wonders  at  the  exhausting  night  of  study  that 
preceded  it  ? 

Jesus  was  what  we  call  an  extemporaneous 
speaker ;  but,  strictly  speaking,  this  was  no  extem- 
pore effort.  The  evidences  of  careful  construction 
and  finish  abound  in  the  discourse  itself.  He  was 
destitute  of  tricks  of  speech.  His  methods  were 
never  sensational.  He  used  the  best  of  grammar. 
His  rhetoric  was  a  model.  He  did  not  cater  to  the 
ignorant  by  an  appearance  of  ignorance.  {Ie 
avoided  vulgarisms.  He  spoke  like  a  gentleman. 
This  educated  mechanic  was  a  polished  orator.  He 
was  and  is  the  great  instance  of  the  eternal  truth 
that  a  superior  mind  never  need  abase  itself  to  reach 
an  inferior.  His  simplicity,  directness,  force,  per- 


THE  PREACHER;  AND  THE  DEAD    169 

suasiveness,  were  a  compliment  to  the  most  ignorant 
person  among  his  hearers,  who  responded  to  them 
without  knowing  why  ;  and  the. most  cultivated,  who 
knew  why,  could  no  more  help  responding  than  the 
ignorant.  The  sermons  of  Jesus  indicate  that  he 
was  an  habitual  student,  and  this  of  no  easy  type. 
Days  and  nights  of  severe  application  marked  his 
career  as  a  preacher.  He  was  no  half-taught,  half- 
ready,  popular  talker  trusting  to  his  emotions  to 
take  him  through  the  hour.  He  was  thoroughly 
equipped. 

On  the  occasion  of  which  we  speak,  he  addressed 
himself  particularly  to  twelve  men.  Twelve  hun- 
dred, or  twice  or  thrice  that  number,  were  in  the 
audience;  but  his  disciples,  with  their  fresh  vows 
scarcely  parted  from  their  lips,  were  in  the  fore- 
ground. He  placed  and  retained  them  in  close 
proximity  to  himself,  while  he  made  of  the  private 
ceremony  through  which  he  had  but  just  initiated 
them  a  solemn  public  event.  He  had  now  reached 
a  stage  in  his  life  when  organization  was  necessary 
to  the  advancement  of  his  principles,  and  when  he 
began  to  feel  their  advancement  an  urgent  thing. 
This  conviction  he  wished,  if  possible,  to  share  with 
the  witnesses  of  the  scene.  Formality,  as  a  rule,  he 
avoided.  No  other  great  leader  of  men  has  scorned 
it  as  he  did.  His  methods  were  simple  and  modest ; 
he  was  incapable  of  display  ;  he  always  acted  like 
a  man  who  did  not  know  the  use  of  it,  or  who  for- 
got that  it  had  any,  in  human  affairs.  This  was  one 
of  the  very  few  occasions  of  his  life  when  he  took 
advantage  of  a  ceremony  to  achieve  an  end. 


170  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

The  beautiful  and  impressive  formalities  of  the 
morning  were  not  lost  upon  the  crowd ;  the  dullest 
minds  in  it  understood  that  Jesus  regarded  the  or- 
ganization of  his  disciples  as  a  matter  of  profound 
importance  to  himself,  to  them,  to  the  Jewish  race, 
and  to  the  world. 

The  Jews,  being  a  people  born  and  trained  to 
severity,  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  Of  mercy 
they  knew  little.  Commandments  carved  in  stone 
by  the  greatest  of  legislators  grimly  cut  their  ancient 
laws  into  the  Hebrew  instinct.  Jehovah  had  not 
wasted  words  with  the  people.  It  was  :  Thou  shalt 
not,  and  Thou  shalt.  With  explanation,  or  appeal, 
or  promise  He  had  never  concerned  himself.  Moses 
was  not  a  tender  man.  The  fiat  and  its  conse- 
quences were  as  unornamented  as  Sinai,  and  as  hard. 

Jesus,  too,  came  down  from  a  mountain  on  the 
day  when  the  principles  of  the  Christian  faith  were 
first  publicly  laid  down.  Introducing  a  reverent 
reference  to  the  ancient  laws  of  his  race,  —  which  in 
a  less  sincere  man  would  have  been  a  marvel  of  dex- 
terity, —  he  succeeded,  by  a  wonderful  mingling  of 
oratorical  tact  and  genuineness  of  feeling,  in  unfold- 
ing his  theories  of  life  and  of  religion.  These  were 
so  startling  and  original  that  they  took  the  breath 
away  from  his  audience. 

Instead  of  commandments,  Jesus  offered  beati- 
tudes. Instead  of  thunder,  there  was  music.  Threats 
were  replaced  by  promises.  Punishments  interested 
him  less  than  rewards.  After  a  thousand  years  of 
law,  who  could  understand  love  ?  Amazement  which 
amounted  almost  to  stupefaction  listened  to  him. 


THE  PREACHER;  AND  THE  DEAD    171 

He  spoke  of  incredible  things.  He  treated  them  in 
an  astounding  way.  Something  in  his  manner  was 
more  than  priestly  ;  it  was  more  than  royal.  He 
tore  down  old,  solid,  respectable  errors  of  church 
and  society  with  the  assurance  of  a  God  tossing 
aside  human  affairs.  In  his  audience  were  a  certain 
number  of  ecclesiastical  delegates  and  pompous  pie- 
tists of  the  established  belief.  He  paid  no  court  to 
their  position.  He  did  not  on  their  account  soften 
by  an  adjective  anything  which  he  had  to  say.  He 
singled  them  out,  in  fact,  as  he  did  on  more  than 
one  other  occasion,  by  one  of  the  severest  rebukes 
ever  known  to  fall  from  his  gentle  lips.  He  added 
to  his  enemies  on  that  morning.  Conservatives  did 
not  understand  him,  and  hypocrites  feared  him. 
Silent  and  secret  jealousies  and  aversions  grew  in 
his  audience  alongside  of  the  admiration,  affection, 
and  trust  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  not  to 
inspire. 

For  he  spoke  of  strange  thoughts  in  a  strange 
way.  He  offered  great  things  to  small  people.  He 
selected  the  overlooked,  the  despised,  those  who 
were  of  no  consequence.  He  made  extraordinary 
promises  for  ultimate  preeminence  to  men  without 
what  is  called  "  spirit ;  "  to  those  not  quick  to  take 
provocation,  —  patient  people,  the  gentle,  the  hum- 
ble ;  to  those  weakened  by  too  much  grief ;  to  the 
tender ;  to  those  whose  longing  for  what  he  called 
righteousness,  or  Tightness  of  heart,  was  a  spiritual 
starvation.  The  unhappy,  the  slandered ;  those  who 
loved  peace  and  tried  to  preserve  it ;  those  who  suf- 
fered hardship  for  a  good  cause  ;  all  the  obscure  and 


172  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

unfortunate  whom  it  was  not  the  fashion  to  notice,  — 
these  he  preferred. 

To  one  class  of  men  he  reserved  the  most  solemn 
and  most  tender  of  all  his  affectionate  pledges : 
"  The  pure  in  heart,"  he  said,  "  are  blessed.  They 
shall  see  God."  His  voice  sank  with  these  words ; 
it  was  audible  only  because  it  was  so  clear  and 
sweet ;  thousands  held  the  breath  to  catch  the  fall- 
ing tone  ;  hundreds  hung  their  heads  like  children, 
when  they  understood  what  the  Rabbi  said.  No 
person  looked  at  his  neighbor.  Every  one  was  busy 
with  his  own  soul.  On  the  face  of  the  preacher 
crept  such  a  look  as  an  unclean  man,  beholding, 
might  have  died  of,  for  very  shame.  Then  dazzling 
brightness  smote  his  countenance.  Many  in  his 
audience  covered  their  eyes  before  its  radiance,— 
these  as  if  they  had  seen,  those  as  if  they  should 
never  see  something  too  precious  to  speak  of ;  some- 
thing dearer  than  life,  more  inexorable  than  death. 

The  preacher  paused  at  this  point,  but  only  to 
gather  strength  to  proceed  with  his  remarkable  dis- 
course. The  sermon  was  not  a  brief  one,  and  its 
beautiful  opening  was  followed  by  a  train  of  thought 
whose  power  and  originality  were  no  less  great  than 
his  introduction.  What  he  said  was  as  fearless  as 
the  lightning,  yet  as  practical  as  any  statute  of  the 
ancient  law. 

He  spoke  as  the  maker  of  a  new  system,  the  legis- 
lator of  a  higher  law.  He  treated  of  many  moral 
offenses.  The  list  ranged  from  murder  to  rash  judg- 
ment, from  immorality  to  excessive  anxiety.  He 


THE  PREACHER;  AND  THE  DEAD    173 

dealt  with  many  virtues  ;  their  names  were  new  to 
his  audience.  Each  watched  to  see  how  his  neigh- 
bor took  these  confusing  things ;  rich  travelers  and 
poor  rustics,  philosophers  and  women,  listened  with 
a  common  bewildermept.  The  few  plain  men  who 
had  given  their  lives  to  his  service  lifted  trustful 
and  affectionate  faces  to  Jesus  while  he  spoke,  but 
they  experienced  their  share  of  the  general  perplex- 
ity. The  preacher  stood  among  his  doctrines  as  if 
he  were  the  creator  of  a  new  world. 

In  an  age  when  human  life  was  held  as  cheap  as 
the  fish  in  the  nets  at  Galilee,  or  the  ants  crushed 
by  the  hoofs  of  camels  in  the  caravan,  he  taught  that 
one  venomous  wish  makes  a  man  before  God  guilty 
of  murder.  In  an  age  when  common  decency  was 
so  defied  that  the  pen  refuses  to  write  of  the  im- 
morality of  the  times,  he  taught  that  one  coarse 
look  or  low  thought  broke  the  seventh  command- 
ment. 

In  an  age  when  private  revenge  was  sweet  and 
fashionable,  "  Forgive  thine  enemy !  "  rang  from  his 
firm  lips  like  a  military  command  spoken  in  a  lan- 
guage unknown  to  the  rank  and  file.  To  a  people 
whose  habits  of  thought  were  stiff  with  the  selfish- 
ness of  a  race  to  which  self-protection  has  been  for 
generations  foremost  in  mind,  he  flung  down  the 
incredible  demand  that  they  should  love  their  neigh- 
bors as  they  loved  themselves. 

In  an  age  when  a  slave  had  not  as  many  rights 
as  a  pauper  dog  in  our  streets  to-day,  and  when  a 
prince  or  a  priest  treated  a  poor  man  as  he  chose 
and  no  help  for  it,  when  rank  and  wealth  were  never 


174  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

asked  for  their  credentials  if  they  trampled  obscurity 
and  poverty  into  bruises  and  blood,  he  taught  the 
equality  of  man,  the  rights  of  the  wronged,  the 
value  of  the  slighted.  In  a  society  of  sham  he 
scorned  worldliness  by  an  epigram  which  has  re- 
mained superb  and  final  from  his  day  to  ours. 

To  a  church  dying  of  ceremony,  rotten  with 
hypocrisy,  and  dark  with  distrust  of  himself,  he 
gently  offered  an  ideal  of  worship  which  defied 
every  ecclesiastical  conception  of  his  race  and  times. 
An  immortal  prayer  distinguished  and  hallowed  the 
great  discourse.  It  was  the  most  exquisite  episode 
in  the  morning's  service.  The  Lord's  Prayer  has 
never  been  approached  as  a  model  for  public  wor- 
ship. All  times  and  all  people  have  appropriated 
that  matchless  petition.  The  perplexity  of  the  au- 
dience which  listened  to  Jesus  that  summer  morning 
did  not  decrease  as  the  sermon  proceeded. 

Were  they  Gentiles,  that  foreign  ideas  like  these 
should  be  offered  them  without  apology?  Were 
they  angels,  that  virtues  never  heard  of  in  human 
character  should  be  expected  of  them  ?  Who  and 
what  was  this  Rabbi  ?  His  air  of  authority  was 
unimpeachable.  Whence  did  he  get  it  ?  What  did 
he  mean  by  it?  The  most  willful  skeptic  in  the 
throng  felt  it.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  escaping 
it ;  and  when  were  authority  and  persuasion  ever  so 
mingled  in  one  address?  How  could  so  regal  a 
man  be  so  winning  ?  how  could  so  gentle  a  man  be 
so  imperial,  commanding? 

And  now,  indeed,  a  few  thoughtful  persons  re- 
called those  recent  rumors  about  the  Wonderful. 


THE  PREACHER;  AND  THE  DEAD    175 

Was  this  he  who  once  or  twice,  in  his  religious 
enthusiasm,  was  said  to  have  claimed  the  awful  per- 
sonality of  the  Messiah  ?  But  the  preacher  that  day 
had  said  nothing  on  the  subject. 

We  like  to  think  that  he  passed  the  night  suc- 
ceeding this  great  sermon  in  sleep,  for  he  was  worn 
with  his  recent  vigil,  and  the  strain  of  the  day  had 
been  very  heavy.  The  mere  intellectual  exercise  of 
such  an  address  was  no  light  matter.  Add  the 
spiritual  energy,  which  was  of  such  a  sort  as  no 
mind  not  in  sympathy  with  it  can  appreciate.  And 
he  was  destined  soon  to  undergo  a  still  greater 
ordeal,  one  of  the  supreme  experiences  of  his  life. 
He  needed  all  his  strength. 

He  found  it,  —  only  God  and  he  knew  how.  His 
strange  consciousness  that  he  stood  in  some  excep- 
tional relation  to  the  Deity  came  to  him  at  times 
in  mighty  form  and  force.  There  were  crises  when 
he  leaned  upon  it  as  on  an  infinite  Heart  beating 
behind  his  own,  as  nothing  but  the  heart  of  father- 
hood ever  beats,  whether  in  divine  or  human  being. 

Fortified  by  prayer,  encouraged  by  achievement, 
and  calmed  by  sleep,  he  left  Capernaum  and  pro- 
ceeded on  one  of  his  preaching  circuits.  His  follow- 
ers were  with  him,  much  impressed  by  recent  events, 
and  fired  with  new  enthusiasm  in  his  service.  They 
cast  at  him  frequent  glances  of  admiration  touched 
with  reverence.  He  was  unusually  silent.  They 
wondered  why.  But  they  were  used  to  wondering 
where  their  Master  was  concerned.  It  was  their 
habitual  state  of  mind.  He  was  not  like  other  men  ; 


176  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

he  did  not  act  as  other  persons  did.  His  person- 
ality, his  conduct,  his  motives  were  all  so  much 
above  those  of  common  people  that  at  times  the 
affection  which  his  twelve  friends  had  for  him 
mounted  into  awe.  Yet  they  loved  him  too  much 
to  feel  altogether  afraid  of  him. 

They  were  traveling  towards  a  little  Galilean 
town  (its  name  was  Nain  ;  "  The  Delightful  "),  — 
he  still  silent,  and  the  whole  company  quieter  than 
usual,  —  when  they  saw  before  them,  as  evening 
came  on,  the  sombre  movement  of  a  funeral  pro- 
cession, preceded  by  women,  a  custom  peculiar  to 
Galilee.  Hired  mourners  were  chanting  : 

"  Alas,  the  hero  ! 
Alas,  alas,  the  lion  !  " 

The  air  was  so  still  that  the  sound  of  the  dirge 
came  mournfully  to  a  distant  ear. 

By  the  impressive  Oriental  custom,  courtesy  re- 
quired each  traveler  to  stop  his  journey  and  join 
the  mourners.  The  dead  and  the  bereaved  might 
be  strangers,  but  grief  was  the  awful  acquaintance 
of  all  humanity.  Jesus  and  his  followers,  obeying 
the  etiquette  of  the  occasion,  moved  up  to  attach 
themselves  to  the  cortege  which  was  slowly  wind- 
ing its  way  to  the  burial.  One  of  the  beautiful 
but  hopeless  names  given  by  the  Hebrews  to  the 
grave  was,  The  House  of  Eternity.  Many  of  them 
had  but  little  if  any  hope  of  life  beyond,  and 
the  dreariness  of  their  funerals  had  not  much  to 
relieve  it. 

But  what  was  the  Rabbi  doing  ?     Etiquette  did 


THE  PREACHER;  AND  THE  DEAD    177 

not  call  upon  him  to  give  orders  to  the  burial  pro- 
cession. Custom  did  not  allow  him  to  stop  the 
bearers.  Yet  they  had  stopped.  Jesus  himself 
pushed  forward  to  the  wicker  bier,  and  stood  reso- 
lutely beside  it.  The  spectators  were  somewhat 
shocked  when  they  saw  the  Rabbi,  who  was  neither 
a  natural  nor  a  hired  mourner,  so  concerning  him- 
self with  this  funeral. 

The  face  of  the  dead  was  uncovered.  It  was 
that  of  a  man  and  young.  He  had  endured  a  wast- 
ing disease,  and  his  features  were  much  emaciated. 
He  had  been  a  comely  lad ;  there  was  something 
more  appealing  than  revolting  about  his  appear- 
ance even  now :  he  had  the  look  of  the  dead  who 
have  died  in  their  patience ;  who  have  bravely  borne 
the  worst,  and  given  little  trouble,  and  left  more 
grief  than  relief  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  loved 
them  least ;  and  have  left  in  the  lives  of  those  who 
loved  them  most  a  loss  and  woe  unutterable.  Jesus 
seemed  to  be  somehow  drawn  to  the  youth,  as  if  he 
might  have  cared  for  him  living,  —  as  if  he  could 
have  found  it  easy  to  mourn  this  stranger,  dead. 
There  are  lost  friendships  in  every  life;  never, 
perhaps,  met  by  the  roadside  until  too  late.  Was 
this  one  of  his  ?  Or  was  there  nothing  more  in  the 
scene  than  the  natural  movement  of  his  great  heart 
towards  the  anguish  of  a  great  sorrow  ?  He  stood 
looking  down,  close  beside  the  bier. 

An  elderly  woman  was  the  chief  mourner.  She 
was  weeping  piteously.  Years  upon  years  —  it 
seemed  to  her  lifetime  upon  lifetime  —  ago,  she  had 


178  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

followed  the  boy's  father,  like  this,  to  the  swift 
Eastern  burial  that  snatches  the  precious  dead 
out  of  sight  within  a  few  hours.  They  had  been 
married  lovers,  and  this  child  was  their  only  one. 
The  widow  had  reared  the  lad  with  the  blind  ado- 
ration which  lonely  womanhood  offers  to  the  only 
thing  it  has  to  love  and  live  for.  She  had  nothing- 
left.  She  had  not  thought  it  possible  that  Jehovah 
could  crush  her  so  a  second  time.  She  had  saved 
that  unreasoning  faith  in  fate  which  the  least  hope- 
ful of  us  do  sometimes.  She  had  thought  to  keep 
the  boy.  She  was  beginning  to  grow  old.  .  .  . 

*'  Be  not  weeping !  " 

A  low  voice  quite  near  her  surprised  her  misery 
with  these  words,  spoken  with  what  ineffable  sym- 
pathy !  In  all  her  life  she  had  never  heard  any 
one  speak  like  that.  She  looked  up  dully.  The 
sky,  soft  as  it  was  with  the  approaching  night, 
smote  and  dazzled  her.  The  mourners  looked 
small,  and  seemed  to  reel.  Pinched,  gray,  cold,  lay 
the  precious  face.  That  little,  dreadful  thing 
seemed  to  blot  out  the  whole  world.  She  stirred 
towards  it  and  swayed.  She  heard  some  one  say : 

"She  faints!" 

But  she  had  not  fainted.  Misery  was  not  so 
merciful.  She  was  quite  conscious  of  everything. 
She  saw  the  stranger  standing  tall  and  erect.  Ah, 
what  a  look!  What  a  face  !  What  pity  !  What 
fathoms  of  compassion  in  his  eyes ! 

She  had  heard  of  this  look  of  his.  She  per- 
ceived, indeed,  that  it  was  the  Nazarene.  She 
knew  the  deeds  he  did,  for  their  fame  was  in  every 


THE  PREACHER;  AND  THE  DEAD    179 

tongue.  If  her  son  had  been  born  deaf,  or  born 
blind,  or  had  been  bedridden  this  dozen  years,  or 
had  never  walked  at  all,  or  if  he  had  been  a  leper, 
—  and  alive  !  Or  if  she  had  met  this  man  a  few 
weeks,  a  few  days  ago  !  —  But  the  boy  was  dead. 
This  might  be  a  great  healer.  But  the  boy  was 
dead. 

She  turned  away  indifferently  from  the  Rabbi, 
and  mechanically  began  to  cover  the  face  of  the 
dead  with  her  shaking  hands.  But  Jesus  gently 
deterred  her. 

Two  crowds  had  met,  —  that  which  followed  the 
funeral  procession,  and  the  other,  larger  one  which 
followed  the  Nazarene.  The  witnesses  of  this  scene 
were  now  of  a  very  great  number.  The  mass 
pressed  up  and  closed  around  the  mourners.  But 
at  a  look  from  him  it  fell  back. 

With  a  gesture  clearing  a  little  space  for  himself, 
so  that  he  might  be  free  from  contact  with  human- 
ity, Jesus  lifted  his  face  towards  the  sky.  Yet  he 
did  not  seem  to  see  the  sky.  His  gaze  pierced 
beyond  it,  untroubled,  undazzled,  but  deep  with 
interrogation.  He  remained  in  this  attitude  some 
moments.  Then  his  color  slightly  changed. 

.  .  .  Stooping  over  the  bier,  he  regarded  the  face 
of  the  dead  with  majestic  intentness.  His  hands  — 
delicate,  veined,  nervous,  but  instinct  with  life  — 
hovered  over  but  did  not  touch  the  brow  of  the 
corpse.  So  he  stood  quite  still,  thrilling  with  vigor, 
shining  with  purity  of  soul  and  body,  a  man  ideal 
with  the  halo  of  heaven  on  him  and  the  pity  of  earth 


180  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

within  him,  glorious  to  look  upon,  defiant  life  con- 
fronting monarch  death. 

The  awe  of  the  scene  had  now  extended  itself  to 
the  lightest  spectator  in  the  crowd.  The  mourners 
had  stopped  chanting.  Honest  silence  shamed  the 
hired  wailings.  Only  the  mother's  sobs  broke  the 
stillness. 

The  countenance  of  Jesus  had  become  quite  pale. 
What  awful  concentration  of  will,  of  prayer,  of 
faith,  of  energy  grasped  through  his  being?  He 
seemed  for  an  instant  to  gasp  under  it,  as  if  its  grip 
were  more  than  mortal  frame  could  bear.  .  .  .  Then, 
stooping  so  that  his  warm  breath  touched  the  dead 
man's  cheek,  he  commanded  the  body,  as  one  com- 
mands a  living  thing  that  can  obey  : 

"  Young  man,  arise !  I  say,  arise !  "  Now,  swell- 
ing from  all  the  people,  accidental  and  awed  wit- 
nesses of  this  tremendous  scene,  there  surged  cries 
and  murmurs,  fright  and  worship  battling  : 

"  Nay,  nay !  Spare  us !  Flee  !  Pray  !  Jehovah 
have  mercy  upon  us !  Lord  God  of  Israel,  what 
kind  of  man  is  this  ?  " 

For  the  frozen  arms  of  the  dead  had  clasped  the 
Nazarene  around  the  neck ;  and  the  icy  lips,  which 
an  hour  hence  would  have  been  shut  down  forever 
beneath  the  earth,  had  melted  into  broken  words. 

A  woman's  cry  rang  to  the  very  footstool  of  God. 
When  the  weak  or  the  aged  die  of  joy  they  cry  like 
that. 

But  the  Nazarene  solemnly  put  the  young  man 
into  his  mother's  arms  and  turned  away.  His  own 
agitation  was  now  plainly  visible. 


THE  PKEACHER;  AND  THE  DEAD    181 

Many  of  the  people  had  fled  in  terror  from  this 
sight  j  but  some  remained,  and  those  who  did  fell 
flat  upon  the  ground  in  homage. 

When  the  throng  could  find  their  senses,  Jesus 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   KABBI,    AND   THE   WOMAN 

THE  East  was  always  palpitating  with  mysticism, 
and  the  Jews,  we  cannot  too  often  remind  ourselves, 
were  a  wonder-loving  nation.  The  strange  things 
that  had  been  recorded  of  their  ancient  prophets 
were  naturally  recalled;  many  remarkable  deeds 
which  Jesus  did  were  subject  to  explanation  such  as 
it  was  easy  for  the  growing  party  of  his  opponents 
to  proffer.  A  few  slighting  words  cast  at  a  noble 
act,  a  few  illustrations  of  other  wonders  done  by 
other  persons  prominent  in  Jewish  history,  might, 
for  the  moment,  make  an  impression.  But  the 
steady  progress  of  the  facts  made  a  stronger  and  a 
longer.  The  people  always  find  out,  in  the  long 
run,  who  is  their  friend.  The  mass  of  the  people 
were  not  to  be  deterred  from  their  belief  in  a  man 
who  made  their  interests  so  utterly  his  own  ;  who 
threw  himself  into  the  pit  of  their  miseries  and 
struggled  there  with  them  ;  to  whom  their  bereave- 
ments and  their  famines,  their  debts,  their  terrible 
poverty,  their  revolting  diseases,  were  as  important 
as  if  they  had  been  his  own. 

They  gave  to  the  marvels  attendant  upon  his 
career  the  natural  trust  of  witnesses  who  had  been 
the  benefited  party.  But  those  who  were  inclined 


THE  RABBI,  AND  THE  WOMAN  183 

to  believe  in  him,  and  those  who  were  not,  had  now 
come  up  against  a  momentous  event.  Doubt  and 
cavil  could  not  do  much  with  it.  Sneer  and  innu- 
endo and  the  thrust  of  medical  jealousy,  ecclesiasti- 
cal dogmatism,  or  political  taunt,  slid  away  silent, 
like  snakes  in  the  grass.  There  was  a  young  man 
in  Nain,  —  known  of  his  neighbors,  visible  to  his 
friends,  —  a  breathing,  stirring,  smiling-  man.  A 
radiant  mother  clasped  him  to  her  heart.  Thought- 
ful, he  trod  among  the  anemones  in  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  year.  The  witnesses  of  the  fact  num- 
bered thousands  of  sane  and  sensible  people.  It 
created  a  stir  as  tremendous  as  was  to  be  expected. 
In  a  short  time  Palestine  thrilled  with  the  story.  It 
ran  from  the  shore  to  the  capital ;  the  mountains 
and  the  plains  discussed  it  with  respect  amounting 
to  awe. 

It  penetrated  to  the  dungeon  of  Herod ;  and  from 
that  fastness  of  night  and  woe  there  issued  to  the 
ears  of  the  Nazarene  one  piercing  appeal.  It  came 
from  his  poor  kinsman  ;  the  only  cry  uttered  by 
John  in  all  his  courageous  martyrdom.  Trustworthy 
agents  dexterously  brought  the  question  from  the 
prisoner  to  the  Rabbi : 

"  Art  thou  the  man,  —  the  coming  one  ?  Must 
we  look  beyond  thee  ?  Or  art  thou  He  ?"  —  a  mag- 
nificent message,  quite  like  John ;  there  was  not  a 
word  of  complaint  of  his  own  pitiable  condition  ;  no 
reaching  out  in  the  fear  of  his  now  closely  approach- 
ing death,  after  sympathy,  after  some  expression  of 
the  love  of  the  man  whom  he  loved  above  all  the 
world  besides  ;  not  a  word  about  himself.  Still,  to 


184  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

the  end,  quenched  in  the  fire  of  his  one  noble  duty 
in  life,  John  could  think,  could  speak  of  nothing 
but  the  great  personality  in  which  he  had  absorbed 
his  own.  The  prophet  was  worthy  of  his  lord. 

Jesus  was  inexpressibly  touched  by  this  message. 
Its  supreme  unselfishness  appealed  powerfully  to 
him ;  and  its  pathos  stirred  freshly  in  his  heart  the 
grief  and  affection  always  burning  there  and  ready 
to  blaze  at  every  thought  of  his  kinsman  John. 

He  was  surrounded  at  the  moment  by  a  large 
crowd.  It  comprised  the  usual  proportion  of  pa- 
tients, waiting  their  turns  at  his  attention.  These 
were  of  all  varieties,  from  the  mild  disorders  to  the 
incurable  and  loathsome  cases.  They  were  clamor- 
ing for  him. 

Jesus  stood  a  little  apart,  listening  to  the  messen- 
gers of  John :  he  could  not  conceal  his  emotion ; 
why,  then,  did  he  not  reply  ?  Why  this  discourtesy 
to  the  disciples  of  his  friend  ?  Yet  he  stood  quite 
silent.  Troubled,  they  repeated  their  question ;  its 
solemnity  was  enough  to  have  challenged  attention 
in  the  lightest  nature.  What  then  ?  Was  this  irre- 
sponsiveness  political  caution  ?  The  dungeons  of 
Herod  had  many  lips,  and  the  palaces  a  thousand 
ears.  Was  the  Nazarene  afraid  to  answer  the  dy- 
ing cry  of  his  kinsman  ? 

The  messengers  of  John  looked  on  to  see  them- 
selves apparently  slighted  by  a  silence  so  enigmatical 
that  they  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it.  For  Jesus 
turned  abruptly  away  from  them  and  went  on  with 
his  morning's  business. 

Precisely  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  no  vis- 


THE   RABBI,  AND  THE  WOMAN  185 

itors  were  there,  he  proceeded  as  usual  to  attend  to 
his  patients.  They  crawled  and  crowded  to  his  feet. 
He  gave  to  each  case  his  habitual  attention,  patiently 
individualizing,  as  he  always  did  (for  this  was  one 
of  the  minor  secrets  of  his  success  in  healing),  and 
following  one  cure  by  another  with  an  enthusiasm 
which  no  form  of  disease  and  no  accumulation  of  its 
drain  upon  his  strength  seemed  ever  to  check.  When 
the  healer  had  finished  his  work  for  the  day,  the 
preacher  began  his.  The  morning's  cures  were  fol- 
lowed by  one  of  his  impassioned  religious  addresses. 
The  friends  of  the  prisoner,  who  had  been  using 
their  eyes  to  the  utmost,  now  began  to  use  their  ears. 
Their  momentary  resentment  at  his  apparent  refusal 
to  answer  them  had  long  since  died  away ;  they  were 
swept  into  the  common  stream  of  feeling;  they 
could  have  knelt  at  his  feet  with  the  rest. 

When  he  had  completed  his  discourse  the  preacher 
turned  with  a  swift,  commanding  motion  to  the  mes- 
sengers of  John.  Upon  his  face  the  tense  changes 
in  his  mood  had  cut  deep  marks.  Now  he  gave  his 
emotion  rein.  Ah,  how  for  a  moment  had  they 
thought  he  did  not  care  ! 

It  needed  no  words  now  to  tell  the  dullest  of  men 
how  the  Rabbi's  heart  melted  for  his  kinsman's  sake. 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  he  spoke.  And  then  he 
delivered  one  of  the  most  remarkable  replies  ever 
made  by  one  public  man  to  another  concerning  the 
movement  of  large  affairs. 

"  Go,"  he  said,  "  tell  John  what  ye  behold.  There 
were  the  blind,  — they  see  ;  the  deaf,  —  they  hear. 
You  saw  those  lame  men  ;  they  walk.  Lepers  are 


186  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

cleansed.  There  was  a  dead  man.  The  dead  are 
raised." 

To  this  list  of  marvels  he  added,  with  a  signifi- 
cance as  easy  to  understand  in  his  times  as  it  is 
difficult  in  ours,  this  impressive  climax : 

"  To  the  poor  the  Gospel  is  preached." 

These  were  his  credentials.  Without  comment, 
he  sent  them  to  the  dungeon.  John  would  under- 
stand. 

Was  this  the  Messiah  ?  Was  he  not  ?  Here  was 
the  profoundest  question  possible  to  the  age  in  which 
these  two  men  lived !  Let  incarceration  and  mar- 
tyrdom answer ;  solitude  and  the  shadow  of  hurrying 
death  might  reply,  when  the  free  and  the  comfort- 
able and  the  light  of  heart  could  not. 

It  was  in  one  of  the  pauses  of  this  missionary 
journey,  —  it  was  autumn,  —  and  he  had  been 
invited  to  the  house  of  a  prominent  citizen.  This 
irian  was  a  Pharisee. 

The  real  aristocrats  among  the  Jews  at  this  time 
were  the  Sadducees,  a  cold  and  polished  intellectual 
sect,  remembered  in  the  history  of  philosophy  as 
cultivating  a  pugnacious  disbelief  in  immortality ; 
and  the  Herodians,  who  were  the  courtiers  and  free- 
thinkers. From  some  of  those  subtle  causes  which 
fashion  creates  but  does  not  explain,  the  priests,  the 
scribes,  and  the  Pharisees  never  socially  outranked, 
perhaps  did  not  quite  rank,  the  exclusive  skeptics ; 
but  thev  remained  the  leading  classes  of  the  people, 
a  powerful  and  pretentious  body  of  men. 

They  corresponded  in  position  somewhat  to  our 


THE   RABBI,   AND   THE   WOMAN  187 

clergy  and  important  laymen,  and  were  of  goodly 
numerical  size,  about  six  thousand.  The  Pharisees 
were  the  fussy  formalists  of  Palestine. 

As  a  class,  they  did  not  love  the  Nazarene,  who 
did  not  hesitate  publicly  to  rebuke  them  when  they 
deserved  it. 

They  were  the  inconsistent  church  officers  and 
church  members  who  in  all  times  do  so  much  mis- 
chief. Men  of  the  world  without  religious  convic- 
tions had  in  that  age  no  more  patience  with  the  reli- 
gious pretension  which  was  not  backed  by  character 
than  they  have  in  this. 

There  was  a  certain  coldness  of  heart  combined 
with  pettiness  of  ceremonial  in  these  ecclesiastical 
autocrats,  which  has  made  the  name  of  their  sect 
a  synonym  for  pious  sham  from  their  day  to  ours. 
Jesus  had  no  patience  with  shams.  He  never  failed 
to  denounce  one  when  it  came  in  his  way,  if  he 
thought  it  of  any  use  to  do  so.  The  spiritual  rotten- 
ness of  these  religious  pretenders  was  peculiarly 
abhorrent  to  him. 

His  host,  on  the  occasion  of  which  we  speak,  was 
one  of  the  better  specimens  of  the  sect ;  a  man  not 
without  some  sincerity,  or  even  that  tendency  to 
earnestness  which,  falling  a  little  short  of  the  qual- 
ity itself,  makes  a  man  uncomfortable  in  a  wrong 
position,  without  forcing  him  into  a  right  one.  This 
man  had  been  observing  the  career  of  Jesus  with 
some  candor,  and,  on  the  entrance  of  the  itinerant 
Kabbi  to  his  town,  took  advantage  of  the  opportu- 
nity to  obtain  some  acquaintance  with  him.  Simon 
the  Pharisee  was  a  man  of  position  both  in  church 


188  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

and  in  society ;  and  social  attention  on  his  part  to 
the  heretic  Nazarene  indicated  some  independence 
of  thought ;  for  a  Pharisee  was,  in  his  own  way, 
as  exclusive  as  a  Brahman  in  his  social  life.  Pos- 
sibly Simon  was  a  little  fond  of  lionizing  stran- 
gers; at  all  events,  it  was  not  without  a  certain 
sense  of  patronage,  curiously  mingled  with  defer- 
ence, that  he  extended  the  invitation. 

Jesus  accepted  it.  He  was  never  anything  of  a 
recluse.  While  he  had  no  interest  in  what  could 
be  called  society,  and  no  time  for  it,  yet  he  never 
obviously  shunned  it.  He  believed  thoroughly  in 
the  culture  of  the  human  relations.  As  a  means  to 
his  high  ends,  he  would  use  the  smallest  avenue  of 
approach  to  hearts.  One  striking  thing  about  his 
history  as  a  preacher  is  that,  while  he  gave  so  much 
time  and  study  to  his  discourses,  he  did  not  shut 
himself  in  to  what  we  should  call  the  pulpit.  He 
never  fell  back  on  his  public  position,  on  his  im- 
mense and  exhausting  public  responsibilities,  to 
excuse  him  from  any  reasonable  form  of  private  use- 
fulness. He  relied  much  upon  personal  influence, 
—  very  much  upon  the  personal  interview.  Nine- 
teen such  private  interviews  are  said  to  be  recorded 
of  him,  and  these  were  but  the  fraction  of  the  facts. 
It  was  quite  according  to  his  method  to  accept  a 
social  invitation  in  a  circle  where  he  was  not  alto- 
gether sure  of  a  sympathetic  atmosphere.  He  went 
to  dine  with  the  Pharisee. 

It  was  a  house  of  some  degree,  and  the  interior 
indicated  ease,  if  not  large  wealth.  The  Rabbi  was 
received  politely,  but  not  with  intimacy.  Some 


THE  RABBI,  AND   THE  WOMAN  189 

little  ceremonies,  such  as  the  offer  of  the  host  him- 
self to  kiss  the  cheek  or  anoint  the  hair  of  a  cher- 
ished friend  or  very  distinguished  guest,  on  entering, 
were  absent  from  the  occasion.  Still  there  was  no 
default  of  a  certain  sort  of  cordiality;  and  appar- 
ently the  guest  was  satisfied  with  his  reception.  A 
rustic  Rabbi,  not  too  familiar  with  the  best  society, 
—  why  should  he  be  conscious  of  any  deficit  in 
etiquette?  It  seemed  he  was  not.  The  banquet 
opened  amiably. 

Jesus,  as  the  guest  of  honor,  bore  his  part  in  the 
entertainment  with  that  brilliant  self-possession 
which  always  surprised  men  of  the  world  in  this 
itinerant  missionary.  His  air  of  conscious  superior- 
ity restrained  by  modesty  was  very  attractive.  It 
was  the  essence  of  good-breeding.  People  of  polite 
life  wondered  where  he  acquired  it.  Was  he  not  a 
carpenter,  and,  if  one  were  correctly  informed,  a 
Nazarene  ?  The  gay  world  had  now  begun  to  give 
some  attention  to  this  extraordinary  zealot.  The 
church  was  watching  him  keenly,  and  that  with 
growing  disfavor.  Society  would  have  liked  to  take 
him  up,  but  his  dignity  was  too  marked  for  this ;  it 
was  unapproachable.  He  responded  only  to  a  cer- 
tain element  of  sincerity.  Without  seeming  to  do 
so,  he  really  exacted  a  given  amount  of  deference. 

As  the  Pharisee's  dinner  progressed,  this  defer- 
ence became  more  obvious.  The  conversation  of 
Jesus  was  so  remarkable,  his  mien  so  high,  that 
mere  social  ease  wilted  before  him.  Position  sud- 
denly seemed  a  paltry  thing.  Birth  and  ease, 
money  and  fashion  and  ecclesiastical  eminence  lost 


190  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

their  usual  proportions.  The  host  and  his  friends 
grew  thoughtful  before  this_courtly  .democrat.  Pro- 
found respect  replaced  the  polite  curiosity  with 
which  the  guest  had  been  at  first  received. 

The  company  were  reclining  on  their  comfortable 
couches  in  the  fashion  which  had  crept  into  Pales- 
tine from  the  far  East,  —  each  leaning  on  his  left 
elbow,  leaving  the  right  hand  free  for  use  at  the 
table,  —  when  a  little  disturbance  occurred. 

It  was  a  very  easy  thing  to  obtain  access  to  an 
Eastern  house,  and  a  slight  noise  without  the 
dining-hall,  as  of  servants  parleying  with  some  un- 
welcome person,  aroused  the  quick  ear  of  the  host. 
He  looked  up  anxiously.  The  sight  which  he  saw 
sent  the  color  flushing  to  his  forehead.  He  glanced 
at  his  eminent  guest  with  evident  trepidation.  He 
might  have  entertained  many  a  visitor  whom  the 
incident  would  not  have  especially  repelled ;  or  at 
most  it  could  have  been  passed  off  with  a  light 
apology  and  a  laugh,  and  the  servants  would  have 
taken  care  of  the  intruder.  But  this  man  !  —  what 
would  he  think  of  it  ?  The  man  of  the  world  tried 
to  frame  an  apology  suitable  to  the  character  of  his 
guest,  but  the  words  failed  on  his  lips.  He  would 
have  given  rough  orders  to  clear  the  room  of  the 
objectionable  person,  but  a  look  from  the  Nazarene 
deterred  him. 

The  intruder  was  a  woman.  She  stood  just  within 
the  entrance  to  the  dining-hall,  half  determined, 
half  disheartened,  and  wholly  uncomfortable.  The 
long,  silk  curtain  of  red  purple  which  she  had 
pushed  aside  hung  about  her;  her  arm  was  still 


THE  RABBI,  AND   THE  WOMAN  191 

lifted  to  hold  it ;  the  gold  and  silk  fringe  vibrated 
on  her  shoulders,  for  there  was  a  light  draught  and 
the  curtain  answered  to  it.  The  woman  was  young 
and  beautiful.  She  was  daintily  dressed.  One 
hand  had  closed  over  a  small,  carved  alabastron 
which  she  wore  suspended  from  her  neck  by  a  gold 
chain.  Her  black  hair  was  loose  and  very  long  :  it 
wrapped  her  modestly,  and  fell  forward  over  her 
burning  cheeks.  She  did  not  try  to  push  it  back. 
She  was  painfully  embarrassed,  and  seemed  to  cling 
to  this  natural  veil.  Wrapped  in  it,  she  took  a  few 
steps  forward,  and  stood  uncertain.  The  room  had 
grown  quite  still.  Suddenly  a  sad,  little  sound 
broke  the  quiet.  It  was  a  sob.  The  woman  was 
weeping. 

The  gaze  of  every  guest  at  the  table  was  now 
upon  her,  but  the  Nazarene  had  not  turned  his 
head.  She  seemed  disturbed  at  this,  for,  from  the 
moment  of  her  entrance,  the  poor  girl  had  fastened 
her  large,  mournful  eyes  upon  the  guest  of  honor ; 
she  had  no  power  of  vision  in  her  for  any  other 
person  in  the  room.  He  ignored  her  so  completely 
that  she  seemed  to  be  half  crushed  by  his  indiffer- 
ence, and  for  a  moment,  though  she  was  now  so 
near  him  that  she  could  have  touched  him,  she 
seemed  inclined  to  turn  and  fly  from  the  house. 

But,  although  he  neither  spoke  nor  glanced  at 
her,  something  in  the  attitude  and  expression  of 
the  Eabbi  restrained  her.  Half  retreating  as  she 
was,  she  turned  again,  and,  overcome  with  emotion, 
bent  above  his  feet.  Her  hair,  in  this  position,  fell 
forward,  and  completely  covered  them  and  her  own 


192  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

face  from  sight.  Within  that  dark  and  gentle  pro- 
tection she  could  cry  as  she  would.  Indeed,  the 
woman  was  weeping  sorely.  She  was  not  a  hard- 
ened creature  who  did  not  feel  the  true  nature  of 
her  position.  She  felt  it  acutely,  —  the  discomfi- 
ture of  her  reception  in  the  dining-hall,  the  cold 
anger  of  the  host,  the  manner  of  the  other  guests, 
the  sneers,  the  scorn,  the  indignation,  the  smile  that 
was  worst  of  all.  These  trifles  had  started  the 
tears,  but  their  springs  were  far  below  all  trifles ; 
and  they  flowed  on ;  as  a  woman's  tears  will  flow, 
called  up  by  any  very  little  thing,  buf  answering 
to  the  deepest  miseries  of  her  life. 

The  life  of  this  woman  had  been  a  fathomless 
misery  until  but  now,  a  short  while  ago ;  until  the 
day  when,  lightly  joining  the  great  crowd  that  had 
crushed  to  hear  the  wonderful  Rabbi  preach,  she 
had  come  away  astonished  with  the  moral  astonish- 
ment which  he  so  often  sent  shaking  through  the 
soul.  She  could  never  forget  that  evening,  —  how 
tired  he  looked,  but  how  grand,  as  the  people  came 
clamoring  about  him,  after  he  had  done  preaching ; 
nor  how  she  felt,  —  like  a  grub  to  which  a  God  had 
in  one  moment  given  wings.  She  went  with  the 
crowd  lightly,  as  the  flippant  do,  but  she  came  away 
never  able  to  think  lightly  again  ;  turned  grave  for- 
ever ;  a  woman  persuaded  out  of  her  past  by  the 
sight  of  such  purity  as  she  had  never  dreamed  of. 
One  word,  one  look  of  his  was  enough.  She  could 
not  be  in  the  same  world  with  him  and  do  wrong. 
His  spotlessness  seemed  to  her  something  relentless, 
like  a  law  that  must  include  herself,  like  some- 


THE  RABBI,  AND   THE  WOMAN  193 

thing  in  the  presence  of  which,  or  even  in  the  mem- 
ory of  which,  guilt  could  not  draw  a  breath.  And 
then  his  pity  !  Oh,  his  pity !  If  she  had  only  had 
the  chance  to  try  what  that  woidd  do  for  her ! 

It  was  trusting  to  that  unknown  quantity  that 
she  had  come  to  this  house.  She  had  tried  other 
times,  when  he  was  preaching,  to  speak  to  the 
Rabbi,  as  she  saw  the  others  do,  but  there  were  so 
many  others !.  And  people  had  pushed  her  back, 
saying :  "  You  are  not  fit  to  talk  to  such  as  he  !  " 
And  one  said  :  "  He  would  not  like  it.  He  would 
not  want  to  see  you."  She  was  used  to  such  re- 
pulses. So  she  had  accepted  them  meekly  and 
gone  away,  and  had  never  exchanged  one  word 
with  him,  though  she  would  have  died  for  it.  And 
now  he  would  not  speak  it !  Perhaps  he  was  of- 
fended with  her  for  forcing  her  way  into  the  dining- 
hall.  Perhaps  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  over- 
look her  history,  or  was  afraid  of  the  effect  on  his 
own  reputation  if  he  defied  the  customs  of  virtuous 
society  and  noticed  the  presence  of  a  woman  like 
herself.  Her  tears  flowed  faster  at  the  thought; 
but,  with  the  gentleness  of  true  sorrow  for  error 
repented,  she  meekly  refused  to  be  discouraged  by 
the  wound  to  her  timid  and  dawning  self-respect. 
Her  feeling  towards  the  Kabbi  was  too  deep  ;  her 
heart  melted  with  the  touching  idealization  which 
can  be  given  only  by  the  tainted  to  the  pure.  She 
was  so  grateful  to  him  for  living  in  the  world,  she 
loved  him  so  for  being  what  he  was,  that  she  could 
have  thrown  her  life  down  in  an  ecstasy  of  torture 
for  his  sake. 


194  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

The  poor  woman  would  not  accept  his  rebuff,  if 
rebuff  it  were.  If  she  might  not  see  his  face,  she 
could  worship  at  his  feet ;  those  patient,  tired, 
but  never-resting  feet  which  trod  the  dust  of  Pales- 
tine over  in  search  of  unhappy  people  whom  he 
could  comfort. 

The  storm  of  her  tears  became  a  deluge,  and 
drenched  the  bare  feet  of  the  Rabbi  where  they 
lay  upon  the  low  cushions  of  his  couch.  She  was 
half  frightened  at  this,  and,  seeing  what  she  had 
done,  she  hurriedly  wiped  away  the  wetness  with 
her  thick  long  hair.  She  tried  to  stop  crying,  but 
could  not.  Suddenly  he  felt  a  strange  thing. 
The  lips  of  the  woman  had  touched  his  feet ;  timid 
and  reverent  and  delicate  kisses  fell  one  upon 
another,  —  an  outburst  of  humiliation  and  adora- 
tion such  as  the  lowest  soul  on  earth  might  offer 
to  the  highest  God  in  heaven.  The  woman  had 
reached  one  of  those  moments  of  spiritual  exalta- 
tion when  one  neither  knows  nor  cares  what  may 
happen  next.  Until  she  saw  and  heard  the  pro- 
phet, she  had  not  understood  what  disgrace  meant. 
Now,  at  the  very  crisis  when  she  first  had  know- 
ledge of  the  nature  of  shame,  she  had  her  first  ex- 
perience of  a  communication  between  God  and  the 
soul,  —  we  give  it  different  names  :  repentance,  or 
forgiveness,  or  some  word  which  is  all  too  definite 
to  hold  it ;  but  the  most  that  we  know  is,  that 
there  is  a  beautiful  mystery  which  extinguishes 
shame  and  never  tells  us  how. 

She  forgot  the  angry  host,  the  sneering  company ; 
even  the  silence  of  the  Rabbi  himself  ceased  to 


THE  RABBI,  AND  THE  WOMAN  195 

trouble  her.  She  had  forgotten  herself,  her  misery, 
and  her  error.  She  remembered  nothing  in  the 
world  but  him. 

The  little,  white  alabastron  had  fallen  from  her 
trembling  hand  and  hung  forward  by  its  chain.  She 
took  it  up  and  unsealed  it.  One  of  the  powerful 
perfumes  of  the  East  flowed  out  pungently  and  filled 
the  air  of  the  dining-hall.  The  alabaster  vial  con- 
tained a  precious,  scented  unguent,  much  favored  by 
all  classes  of  society  that  could  afford  it.  The  wo- 
man poured  it  out  lavishly,  covering  her  hands  and 
the  feet  of  the  Nazarene  with  it,  while  she  humbly 
anointed  them.  She  asked  for  nothing ;  not  even 
a  sign  that  would  give  her  a  breath  of  confidence 
in  the  new  feeling  which  she  had  begun  to  dare  to 
call  respect  for  herself.  She  only  offered  all  she 
had  or  could.  She  was  sorry,  and  happy,  and  dif- 
ferent. She  wanted  the  Rabbi  to  understand.  She 
longed  that  he  should  know  how  she  felt  about  him. 

Up  to  this  time  the  Nazarene  had  not  spoken  ;  but 
his  delicate  features  had  shown  many  varying  and 
fine  emotions  during  the  progress  of  this  touching 
scene.  Now,  unexpectedly,  he  spoke.  But  he  spoke 
to  his  host,  who,  restrained  by  politeness  from  inter- 
fering with  the  conduct  of  his  guest  during  this 
unprecedented  episode,  had  taken  no  pains  to  con- 
ceal either  his  displeasure  or  his  personal  skepticism 
in  the  matter. 

"  Simon,"  observed  Jesus  suddenly,  "  if  this  man 
were  a  prophet,  he  would  have  known  what  kind  of 
a  woman  she  is  who  touched  him." 

The  face  of  the  Pharisee  crimsoned  with  einbar- 


196  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

rassment,  for  in  these  precise  words  his  thought  had 
been  at  that  moment  cast.  The  Nazarene  read  him 
as  if  he  had  been  a  Hebrew  scroll.  Simon  flung 
out  his  hands  in  Oriental—deprecation,  but  his  eyes 
dropped.  With  a  quiet  sarcasm,  all  the  more  cut- 
ting because  perfectly  courteous,  Jesus  proceeded  to 
suggest  the  number  and  variety  of  social  attentions 
omitted  in  his  own  case  by  his  host.  No  one  had 
anointed  the  visitor's  head  when  he  came  in.  He 
had  observed  the  absence  of  the  Oriental  kiss  of 
greeting.  Nay,  even  the  usual  courtesy,  the  com- 
monest one  of  all,  had  been  overlooked  by  careless 
servants  whom  a  none  too  careful  master  had  not 
rebuked  for  their  neglect.  This  country  Rabbi  had 
not  been  so  ignorant  of  the  world,  after  all !  He 
had  noted  the  slight  of  every  little  lapse  of  etiquette. 
And,  worst  of  all,  he  had  detected  his  host  in  the 
very  breach  of  it  most  galling  to  a  Pharisee.  For 
Simon  belonged  to  the  sect  whose  god  was  an  inces- 
sant lavation.  A  Pharisee  might  cheat,  or  lie,  or 
oppress,  or  evict  his  tenants,  or  slander,  or  do  as  he 
pleased  about  the  moral  law;  but  he  knew  which 
way  every  drop  of  water  ought  to  run,  and  fully  ex- 
pected to  bathe  his  soul  into  the  kingdom  of  Heaven. 
An  eminent  Sadducee  once  said  of  a  distinguished 
Pharisee  that  he  would  wash  the  sun  itself,  if  he  could 
get  at  it. 

The  woman  was  still  weeping.  She  could  not 
altogether  follow  the  conversation  which  now  took 
place  at  the  table,  partly  because  she  was  crying  so, 
partly  because  it  was  so  foreign  to  her  habit  of  mind 
that  it  was  not  easy  for  her  to  understand  it.  But 


THE  RABBI,   AND  THE   WOMAN  197 

she  soon  perceived  that  it  concerned  herself,  and 
began  to  concentrate  her  attention  upon  it.  Was 
the  Rabbi  saying  a  kind  thing  of  her  —  her  ?  In- 
credible ! 

"  Thou,  Simon,  didst  not  kiss  me,  nor  anoint,  nor 
give  me  any  water  for  my  feet.  But  she  has  washed 
my  feet  with  her  tears,  .  .  .  wiped  them  with  her 
hair,  .  .  .  anointed  them ;  .  .  .  she  has  not  yet 
ceased  to  kiss  my  feet." 

The  words  were  said  in  a  low  tone,  but  the  humil- 
iated woman  heard  them  with  broken  distinctness. 
For  very  joy  and  awe  she  stopped  weeping ;  sud- 
denly, like  a  comforted  child.  Impossible!  Did 
she  hear  correctly  ?  Was  she  deaf,  or  dazed  ? 

"She  has  loved  much.  .  .  .  Much  is  forgiven 
her." 

Did  the  Rabbi,  could  the  Rabbi,  say  that  ? 

She  raised  her  tear-stained  face,  pushed  her  hair 
back  from  it,  and  courageously  lifted  her  head. 

Oh,  wonderful !  He  had  turned  to  her  at  last. 
His  glorious  eyes,  like  altar  fires,  were  lighted  for 
her.  His  grave  lip,  fine  with  feeling,  moved  for  her. 
His  pity,  —  now  she  knew  what  his  pity  was  I  His 
own  heart  seemed  to  ache  or  break  with  it.  It  gave 
her  a  bewildering  feeling,  —  she  a  creature  scorned 
and  stained,  —  as  if,  for  his  sake,  because  he  pitied 
her  she  must  have  value,  she  must  be  worth  what  it 
cost  him  to  think  of  her  as  he  did. 

His  exquisite  compassion,  tenderer  than  woman's, 
stronger  than  man's,  a  quality  undreamed  of  before 
in  the  world,  seemed  to  lift  her  from  the  dust  to 
the  stars.  Jesus  regarded  the  woman  for  some 


198  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

minutes  in  one  of  the  profound  silences  for  which 
his  manner  was  distinguished.  He  seemed  to  be 
gauging  her  nature,  taking  careful  account  of  her 
genuineness,  whether  it  would  hold  or  not.  His 
next  words  were  the  result  of  careful  reflection,  and, 
when  they  came,  no  one  in  the  room  wondered  that 
they  were  uttered  with  the  solemnity  of  a  man  who 
weighs  the  full  force  and  consequence  of  what  he 
says. 

"  Thy  sins,"  he  slowly  said,  "  are  forgiven  thee." 

"  Are  forgiven  me ! "  she  repeated  with  pathetic 
incredulity,  —  "forgiven  me?"  She  had  fallen 
upon  the  floor  before  his  blinding  face.  Now  she 
raised  herself  awkwardly  to  her  feet.  He  did  not 
extend  his  hand  to  help  her.  She  felt  that  it  de- 
pended on  herself  from  this  hour  how  she  stood 
before  the  world.  She  walked  tottering  but  erect. 
His  look  was  as  if  it  would  dismiss  her ;  perhaps  as 
if  he  would  spare  her  the  inevitable  consequences 
of  this  scene,  and  shelter  her  from  rude  comment, 
in  solitude,  and  in  white  thoughts. 

"  Go,"  he  added  gently,  "  and  in  peace."  With 
lifted  head  and  shining  eyes  she  went.  Not  a  sneer 
from  the  coldest  lip  in  the  company  followed  her  out. 
No  one  smiled.  The  servants  made  way  for  her 
without  a  glance  of  disrespect.  She  did  not  even 
look  back  at  the  Rabbi,  for  she  felt  that  he  would 
not  wish  it.  The  silken  curtain  parted  and  fell; 
and  in  the  thrilling  echo  of  his  last  great  words  she 
was  gone. 

The  woman  had  gone,  but  the  fact  remained.  The 
Rabbi  had  done  a  wholly  reprehensible  and  danger- 


THE  RABBI,   AND  THE  WOMAN  199 

ous  thing.  He  had  put  on  record  before  influential 
ecclesiastical  witnesses  the  boldest  heresy  of  his  life. 
He  had  dared,  —  and  the  heavens  had  not  opened  to 
smite  the  blasphemer,  —  he  had  presumed  to  take 
upon  himself  the  remission  of  sins.  This  was  a  doc- 
trine dear  to  the  Jewish  theocracy,  and  protected  by 
ages  of  formalism  and  of  awe. 

Jesus,  a  rustic  from  Nazareth,  a  carpenter-rabbi, 
had  dared  to  forgive  a  sinner,  and  she  the  lowest  of 
her  kind. 

The  banquet  broke  up  in  displeasure  and  disor- 
der. Who  was  this  person  who  arrogated  to  himself 
the  power  of  Jehovah  ?  Who  could  forgive  sin  but 
God  Almighty  ? 

That  scene  in  the  dining-hall  at  the  house  of 
Simon  proved  an  epoch  in  the  story  of  the  Naza- 
rene.  One  of  the  kindest  and  manliest  deeds  of 
his  life  became  One  of  the  strongest  links  in  the 
unseen  chains  which  were  already  dragging  him  to 
his  doom.  Palestine  soon  resounded  with  the  im-  »/£/ 
piety  of  the  great  heretic  ;  and  behind  dark,  ecclesi- 
astical curtains  and  in  grim,  political  corners  his 
name  was  marked. 

One  of  his  offenses  in  this  act  of  lofty  chivalry 
was  the  attitude  which  he  took  towards  womanhood. 
This  was,  and  remained  throughout  his  life,  so  far 
in  advance  of  his  age,  that  it  was  nothing  less  than 
stupefying  to  his  contemporaries.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  original,  as  it  was  one  of  the  most  noble  ele- 
ments in  his  philosophy  and  in  his  practice.  The 
position  of  women  among  the  Jews  was  far  beyond 


200  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

that  which  other  Oriental  nations  gave  them.  Still, 
men  who  refused  to  sit  beside  the  ladies  of  their 
families  in  the  synagogue  were  exasperated  by  the 
social  code  of  the  Nazarene.  Races  which  thought 
it  degrading  for  a  man  to  allude  to  the  existence  of 
his  own  wife  outside  of  his  home,  races  whose  favor- 
ite proverb  taught  that  "  the  threshold  weeps  for 
forty  days  when  a  girl  is  born,"  were  perplexed  by 
his  estimate  of  the  nature  and  position  of  woman. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  the  bitterness  which  he 
aroused  in  this  respect.  He  advocated  a  startling 
reform  as  calmly  as  if  it  were  as  old  as  Sarah,  Prin- 
cess of  Abraham.  He  seemed  almost  unconscious 
of  the  social  revolution  of  which  he  was  laying  the 
foundations.  He  went  straight  on  with  serene  and 
beautiful  indifference,  always  treating  women  with 
respect,  always  recognizing  their  fettered  individ- 
ualism, their  force  of  character  if  they  had  it, 
their  undeveloped  powers,  their  terrible  capacity  for 
suffering,  their  superiority  in  spiritual  vigor.  He 
boldly  took,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  his 
history,  the  stand  that  he  had  taken  in  the  Phari- 
see's dining-room  :  that  the  restoration  to  a  respected 
future  of  a  woman  who  had  repented  her  past  was 
to  be  made  a  matter  of  course  ;  that  men  and  women 
stood  before  God  upon  the  same  moral  plane,  and 
that  they  ought  so  to  stand  before  human  society. 
This  was  a  thing  hard  to  understand,  and  harder  to 
forgive.  Men  with  holy  faces  and  unholy  lives 
rebelled  at  it.  Men  with  haughty  hearts,  bad  tem- 
pers and  self-indulgent  habits,  —  all  the  domestic 
tyrants  whose  yoke  women  were  meekly  and  hope- 


THE   RABBI,   AND  THE  WOMAN  201 

lessly  enduring,  —  resented  it.  Even  the  kind  men, 
the  loyal,  the  loving,  of  whom  in  all  ages,  thank 
God,  the  world  has  had  her  happy  share,  were  more 
perplexed  than  enlightened  by  this  social  heresy. 

But  there  is  not  a  single  instance  in  the  life  of 
Jesus  in  which  for  a  moment  he  seemed  inclined  to 
weaken  on  this  point.  Every  incident  in  which  a 
woman  figures  finds  him  as  fearless  and  as  chival- 
rous in  his  treatment  of  her  as  if  he  had  held  the 
ruling  of  society  in  his  own  hands.  With  men  he 
was  sometimes  severe ;  with  women  never.  Men  he  \y 
could  scathe  with  scorn  ;  women  never.  For  men 
he  could  reserve  a  rebuke  amounting  to  denuncia- 
tion ;  for  women  his  impulse  of  forgiveness  came 
uppermost. 

A  little  later  in  his  story,  a  beautiful  incident 
is  related  of  him,  in  which  he  compassionately  saved 
from  sentence  of  death  a  woman  who  perhaps  de- 
served it.  But  the  moral  lesson,  which  has  lasted 
from  that  day  to  this,  was  worth  the  pardon. 
The  exquisite  modesty  and  delicacy  of  the  man  who 
1  could  not  bear  even  so  much  contact  with  so  much 
shame,  and  who,  from  obvious  embarrassment,  wrote 
upon  the  ground  with  his  finger,  and  with  downcast 
eyes,  while  he  gave  the  case  the  consideration  that 
he  must,  have  dropped  upon  our  lives  like  petals 
from  the  very  flower  of  chivalry,  the  blossom  of 
purity,  manliness,  and  godlikeness. 

While  his  ^uccess^in    Galilee  was  at  its  height, 
Jesus  was  forming  the  deepest  friendships  of  his  life. 
At  the  time  when  life  was  at  its  summit,  he,  like 
other  men  of  eminence,  found  these  easy  to  select. 
1  Ecce  Homo. 


202  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

He  had,  among  the  twelve  chosen,  one  preferred. 
This  man,  John,  has  acquired  for  all  time  the 
enviable  reputation  of  being  the  dearest  disciple  of 
Jesus  Christ.  John  was  a  Galilean  fisherman,  like 
several  of  the  others ;  but  he  far  surpassed  his  birth 
and  training  in  a  refinement  which  won  him  a  precious 
place  in  the  heart  of  his  Kabbi.  Jesus  was  deeply 
drawn  to  John,  and  it  is  one  of  the  noble  things 
about  the  others  in  the  little  band  that  none  of  them 
showed  any  jealousy  of  this  preference,  but  treated 
the  friendship  with  rugged  generosity,  memorable 
when  we  think  how  they  all  loved  and  honored  their 
Master ;  all  but  one  dark  soul.  That  man,  the  trea- 
surer of  the  association,  like  other  men  born  traitors 
but  posing  friends,  hidden  in  protestations,  awaited 
the  time  when  the  movement  of  the  drama  should 
betray  him  to  the  world  ;  perhaps  —  who  knows  ?  — 
first  reveal  him  to  himself. 

There  were  other  friendships  peculiarly  dear  to 
Jesus,  but  chiefly  cultivated  a  little  later  in  the  story. 
Their  central  figure  was  a  young  man  living  in  the 
suburbs  of  Jerusalem  ;  but  there  were  grouped  about 
him  the  women  of  his  family,  sisters,  who  had  their 
share  in  a  tenderness  which  always  centred  loyally 
about  their  hospitable  home.  Jesus  was  such  a 
lonely  man  that  an  attractive  home,  where  he  could 
feel  himself  one  of  the  household,  had  a  pathetic 
charm  for  him. 

At  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  and  in  Galilee, 
the  devotion  of  several  high-minded  women  had 
already  been  offered  to  his  cause  and  personality; 
and  he  had  accepted  it  with  the  fine  discernment  in 


THE  RABBI,   AND  THE  WOMAN  203 

such  matters  which  never  failed  him.  No  sentimen- 
talists, no  gushing,  giddy  heads  were  admitted  to  his 
circle.  Extraordinary  as  it  might  be  for  irreproach- 
able women  to  march  Galilee  over  among  the  con- 
verts to  this  Rabbi,  in  whom  the  meanest  mind  in 
Palestine  could  find  110  blame,  the  thing  was  done 
and  done  with  dignity.  One  of  these  ladies  was  the 
wife  of  the  steward  of  Herod  Antipas.  Another 
was  in  high  social  position.  The  group  was  soon 
joined  by  a  joyous  woman  known  as  Mary  of  Mag- 
dala  whom  the  healer  had  cured  of  a  violent  mania, 
and  freed  from  a  terrible  past,  and  whose  gratitude, 
too  real  for  words,  forced  itself  into  deeds. 

Mary,  the  mother  of  Jesus,  the  most  eminent 
matron  of  the  company,  received  the  position  which 
belonged  to  her.  This  was  the  happiest  time  in 
Mary's  later  life.  Perplexity  and  trouble  lay  be- 
hind her.  Anguish  ineffable  lay  before  her.  But 
for  the  moment  she  knew  a  little  comfort.  Family 
friction  no  longer  annoyed  her  in  her  relations  to 
her  son.  In  this  respect  she  had  asserted  herself. 
She  no  longer  brought  to  him  or  suffered  to  be 
brought  to  him  any  criticisms  upon  his  judgment  or 
his  conduct.  She  was  convinced  that  he  was  not  to 
be  interfered  with.  She  bowed  to  his  superiority 
with  more  than  usual  maternal  adoration.  The 
thought  of  his  mystical  birth,  the  belief  in  his  mys- 
tical mission,  for  so  many  years  submerged  in  her 
mind,  had  now  come  uppermost.  Feeling  a  little 
as  if  she  had  wronged  him  by  having  ever  listened 
to  what  the  other  children  thought  or  said  about 
him ;  filled  with  a  noble  sadness  for  any  hour  in 


204  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

which  she  had  ever  wondered  or  questioned  whether 
he  were  fated  to  grow  into  a  grand  destiny,  she 
plunged  herself  into  the  beautiful  devotion  which 
only  a  woman  may  know  and  show,  and  only  for  a 
great  son. 

The  presence  of  his  mother  was  an  inexpressible 
comfort  to  Jesus  in  his  homeless  and  wandering  life. 
With  starting  tears  we  thank  God  that  he  had  it, 
and  had  it  just  when  he  did.  For  he  stood  trem- 
bling on  the  height  of  his  success  ;  filled  with  the 
perplexing  weariness,  with  the  vague  portents  slowly 
assuming  distincter  outlines,  that  besieged  him  in 
the  last  days  before  the  decline  of  his  fortunes  set 
in.  He  moved  apart  from  his  dearest  friendships 
in  the  inexorable  loneliness  which  nothing  but  utter 
love  could  approach  ;  and  the  love  of  a  mother  who 
does  not  ask  to  understand,  only  to  give,  was  at 
times  the  only  one  which  his  hurt  and  patient  heart 
could  bear. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ACROSS   THE   LAKE 

THE  happiest  year  of  his  life  was  almost  over. 
Galilee  had  known  her  one  great  opportunity,  had 
interested  herself  in  it  for  a  dramatic  twelvemonth, 
and  was  ready  to  drop  it  idly  through  her  fickle 
fingers. 

Jesus  observed  the  fluctuations  in  the  popular  ) 
mood  with  an  eye  now  keen  with  experience  in  pub- 
lic life,  and  with  an  inward  illumination  fed  from 
sources  unknown  to  other  men,  and  not  always  con- 
sciously available  to  himself.  He  was  in  the  posi- 
tion of  a  man  whom  success  has  seemed  to  decoy 
to  an  unperceived  doom,  but  whose  own  foresight 
was  not  in  reality  deceived,  and  who,  considering 
only  greatness  of  character  and  purity  of  conduct, 
had  gone  straight  on,  ignoring  the  advance  of  fate. 
Whatever  knowledge  of  the  outcome  of  it  all  he 
possessed  never  deterred  him  for  an  hour  from  do- 
ing the  plain,  right  thing.  The  simplicity  of  his 
moral  purpose  in  face  of  his  complex  and  tragic 
story  is  the  very  essence  of  grandeur.  He  did  not 
vacillate.  He  did  not  trim  or  veer.  What  he 
feared,  he  endured  in  silence.  If  he  trembled,  no 
one  knew  it.  He  pursued  his  course  with  the  indif- 
ference of  a  star  in  which,  all  the  while,  the  heart 


206  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

and  pulses  of  a  too  sensitive  organism  are  beating 
painfully. 

That  year  pressed  hard  upon  his  physical 
strength.  The  demands  upon  the  healer,  the  duties 
of  the  preacher,  encroached  upon  his  endurance  to 
the  point  of  an  exhaustion  which  never  overcame 
him,  though  it  seemed  sometimes  to  threaten  to  do 
so.  There  were  nights  of  vigil  and  prayer,  in  for- 
ests or  on  the  lakeshore,  when  the  trees,  the  hills, 
or  the  waves  were  the  only  companions  whom  he 
could  bear,  for  he  was  so  spent.  There  were  morn- 
ings when  those  who  loved  him,  seeing  him  sitting 
in  his  pulpit-boat,  with  the  people  moving  after  him 
on  the  beach  and  cliffs,  felt  the  pang  at  the  heart 
which  we  have  at  sight  of  the  suffering  of  one  dear 
to  us  whom  we  know  we  do  not  understand  ;  for  he 
looked  so  wasted.  Yet  he  never  sank.  Exactions 
that  would  have  crushed  an  ordinary  man  he  met, 
not  without  signs  that  he  suffered  from  them,  but 
serenely.  Strains  which  would  have  killed  a  lesser 
being  he  endured,  —  who  knew  how  ? 

The  simple  people  who  followed  and  watched 
him  did  not  understand,  as  well  as  we  who  read  his 
story  now,  the  laws  of  the_Jiighly=&tewig  organiza- 
tion ;  those  terrible  laws  which  make  the  very 
physique  qualified  to  do  a  certain  deed  the  more 
liable  to  surrender  to  the  effects  of  it.  One  of  the 
simplest  and  sincerest  healers  of  modern  times  —  a 
man  who  received  his  thousands  of  patients  a  day 
for  a  few  weeks  — found  himself  unable  to  continue 
the  strain  on  body  or  brain,  and  suddenly  retreated 
from  the  clamor  which  he  had  created  ;  disappear- 


ACROSS  THE  LAKE  207 

ing  to  isolation  or  to  death.  Jesus  did  not  retreat. 
He  did  not  disappear.  He  did  not  yield.  He  en- 
dured with  the  delicate  sturdiness  peculiar  to  him- 
self. 

What  was  the  secret  ?  He  stood  and  withstood, 
giving  out  always  of  his  fathomless  pity,  urging 
his  trained  and  powerful  will.  Any  man  in  the 
professions  which  depend  upon  the  concentration 
of  will-power  on  human  conditions  or  character  can 
form  some  pale  idea  of  the  mental  and  emotional 
energy  required  of  Jesus  Christ.  The  expenditure 
of  life  in  him  at  its  least  daily  estimate  was  tremen- 
dous. His  splendid  vigor  refunded  it  all.  How? 
His  glowing  vitality  never  ran  in  debt.  Why? 
Yet  was  there  something  significant  in  his  continued 
inability  to  bear  too  great  or  too  close  human  prox- 
imity. Just  the  little  span  of  water,  put  between 
himself  and  the  throng  upon  the  shore,  saved  him 
for  his  day's  work.  Something  in  his  nature  could 
not,  even  after  all  this  experience  of  crowds,  endure 
the  thoughtless  pressure  of  them  without  that  odic 
space. 

What  became  of  his  boat,  so  dear  to  the  fishermen 
for  his  sake  ?  Did  they  keep  it  safely  moored  on 
Gennesaret,  putting  out  in  it  now  and  then,  with 
tears  which  they  did  not  try  to  hide  from  each  other, 
and  talking  in  low  voices  of  him  ?  Though  they  had 
starved,  not  a  man  of  them  would  have  sold  it.  Was 
it  ever  used  for  a  fishing-trip  again  ?  Did  any  of 
the  thousands  of  people  whom  he  had  comforted 
care  enough  to  treat  it  as  a  sacred  thing  ?  Did  it 
find  its  way  into  mourning  homes,  carved  into  relics 


208  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

and  treasured  for  generations?  Or  did  the  little 
craft  meet,  in  age  and  honor,  the  end  that  a  boat 
loves?  Was  it  wrecked  or  sunken  on  the  sea  that 
had  known  and  carried  it  and-Jiim  ? 

One  of  the  favorite  homiletic  methods  of  Jesus  he 
used  very  much  at  this  time.  He  preached  by  the 
parable  ;  and  some  of  these  most  famous  addresses 
were  delivered  from  the  thwarts  of  his  boat. 

The  parable  was  a  peculiarly  Oriental  form  of 
teaching,  and  one  of  which  he  made  a  valuable  use. 
It  was,  in  fact,  a  species  of  self-protection  to  him. 
Beset,  as  he  was,  by  masses  of  people  who  cared  lit- 
tle for  the  truth,  but  much  for  the  excitement  of  a 
novelty,  he  had  to  deal  with  them  somehow  ;  and  he 
would  not  waste  his  highest  thought  upon  his  lowest 
hearers.  If  they  gave  any  evidence  of  capacity  or 
"wish  to  understand  it,  no  one  ever  lived  so  free  as 
he  from  intellectual  aristocracy.  He  would  offer  all 
he  could.  He  would  share  his  best  with  the  worst. 
But,  with  sheer  shallowness  and  with  mental  vulgar- 
ity, which  could  not  or  would  not  grasp  a  sacred 
idea,  Jesus  was  ingenious.  He  did  not  refuse  to 
speak,  but  he  adapted  himself  to  his  audience.  ^Peo- 
ple who  came  begging  for  stories,  and  incapable  of 
listening  to  anything  else,  got  them. 

The  use  of  the  illustration  came  to  a  brilliant  fin- 
ish in  his  discourses.  But  he  was  ijever  deceived  in 
an  audience  if  it  could  not  go  beyond  that. 

His  reserve  in  the  expression  of  truth,  always  so 
marked  in  him,  became  at  times  massive.  He  had 
so  much  in  thought  which  he  might  not  dare  to  say, 
—  he  believed  so  much  which  he  could  not  induce 


ACROSS  THE  LAKE  209 

others  to  believe,  —  that  he  put  great  skill  into  the 
construction  of  his  sermons. 

Once,  being  puzzled  by  one  of  these  intensely  pop- 
ular discourses,  one  of  his  friends  asked  him  in 
private  what  it  meant,  and  why  he  preached  as  he 
did.  The  reply  of  Jesus  was  a  significant  one,  and 
not  much  easier  to  understand  than  the  sermon. 

He  intimated  that,  as  a  certain  sort  of  audience 
could  not  comprehend  the  whole  truth  if  he  gave  it 
to  them,  he  purposely  gave  them  what  he  thought 
fit,  and  did  not,  indeed,  always  think  it  necessary  to 
make  what  he  chose  to  say  perfectly  clear  to  them. 
Truth  was  always  something  royal  to  him ;  some- 
thing to  be  treated  with  deference.  He  once  spoke 
of  it  as  a  pearl,  and  warned  his  followers  against  ^ 
wasting  it  on  creatures  of  the  trough  and  the  mire. 
In  this  superb  democrat,  who  counted  no  treasure 
of  brain  or  heart  too  costly  to  share  with  the  humblest 
being  that  valued  it,  such  intellectual  reticence  is 
very  striking. 

The  parables  of  Jesus  were  a  succession  of  homely 
stories,  the  homeliest  that  he  could  select.  A  search 
for  a  lost  sheep,  a  laborer  working  in  a  vineyard, 
an  episode  in  the  relations  of  servant  and  master, 
the  bursting  of  a  leathern  wine-bottle,  the  blossom- 
ing of  a  wild  lily,  a  commercial  anecdote,  any  such 
trifling  incident  in  common  life,  was  enough.  It 
gave  him  his  illustration,  and  one  .that  was  sure  to 
attract  the  attention  of  his  audience.  The  notice- 
able thing  was  that  he  packed  it  so  tightly  with 
the  truth  which  he  desired  to  convey.  The  lightest 
story  was  heavy  with  thought.  The  illustration 


210  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

never  slipped.  Any  mind  capable  of  thinking  be- 
yond the  silken  cover  of  fiction  could  find  more  than 
enough  to  keep  it  busy  in  the  parables  of  the  Rabbi. 

He  was  preaching  in  this  picturesque  way,  on  the 
western  side  of  the  lake,  on  a  day  eventful  even  in 
the  rush  of  incident  with  which  his  life  was  at  this 
time  crowded. 

The  people  had  over-wearied  him  that  day,  and 
pressed  upon  him  till  he  could  bear  no  more.  With 
one  of  the  peremptory  decisions  which  he  knew  so 
well  when  to  make,  he  determined  to  escape  from 
this  human  torrent,  from  which,  at  its  full,  an 
angel's  vitality  might  have  fled ;  the  current  was  so 
insistent,  so  thoughtless,  so  tainted.  Longing  for 
that  which  only  the  wave  and  the  shore  can  give  to 
the  heart  that  loves  them,  he  turned  to  his  dear 
lake.  It  was  towards  evening.  Beautiful  Gennesaret, 
throbbing  among  her  smiling  hills,  where  even  the 
rocks  were  turned  to  leaf  and  blossom  by  terraces ; 
the  mobile  lake,  where  the  colors  painted  by  flaws 
and  sudden  foam  —  the  metallic  green,  the  blazing 
blue,  the  stately  purple,  the  silver  white  —  chased 
gayly  over  the  water;  Gennesaret,  sinking  to  exquisite 
calms  when  every  mountain-top  was  let  into  the  depths 
from  the  heights,  each  in  its  own  hue  and  fine  out- 
line, and  when  the  silken  sails  of  the  belated  pleasure 
boats  crossed  the  bows  of  the  fishermen  rowing 
home,  —  Gennesaret  was  at  her  loveliest.  The  sun 
was  sinking.  The  moon  was  rising.  The  wind  was 
Jight  and  steady  upon  the  little  sea.  Clouds  hung 
upon  the  opposite  hills,  but  they  looked  innocent 
enough.  Jesus  took  to  his  boat  with  his  friends  and 


ACROSS  THE  LAKE  211 

gave  the  order  to  cross  the  lake.  He  sat  for  a  few 
moments  thoughtfully  watching  the  disappointed 
throng  which  he  had  left  ashore,  as  it  slowly  dispersed 
in  the  growing  shadow.  He  drew  a  sigh  of  relief 
touched  with  regret.  The  strain  had  been  severe 
that  day.  It  was  one  of  the  prominent  lineaments  of 
his  character  that  he  knew  how  far  he  could  go  in 
endurance,  and  that  he  never  hesitated  to  stop  at  the 
right  point.  He  had  none  of  the  short-sighted  senti- 
mentalism  in  philanthropy  which  pushes  the  moment 
to  the  ruin  of  the  year,  or  sacrifices  the  ultimate 
scope  of  a  great  work  to  a  temporary  call  upon  the 
sympathies.  His  that  day  had  been  sorely  taxed. 
He  withdrew  from  the  draft  upon  them. 

He  was  very  tired,  so  tired  that  he  did  not  try  to 
talk,  but  went  aft  and  lay  down,  thinking  to  rest  if 
he  could.*  His  most  thoughtful  disciple  had  put  a 
pillow  there  for  him  upon  the  stern  seat.  His  friends, 
respecting  his  mood  as  they  always  meant  to  do,  even 
if  they  did  not  always  succeed  (for  the  Master  had 
strange  hours,  hard  for  fishermen  to  understand), 
left  him  undisturbed.  The  management  of  the  boat 
soon  occupied  their  attention,  for  there  was  more 
wind  than  one  would  have  thought.  Jesus  fell 
asleep ;  he  was  so  completely  worn  out  that  nature 
insisted,  and  he  slept  long  and  deeply. 

What  were  his  dreams  ?  A  man  so  sad,  so  lonely, 
so  spotless  in  motive,  so  wrapped  in  purposes  which 
no  one  understood,  so  shrouded  in  fate  which  no  one 
could  defy,  —  what  would  his  dreams  be  like  ?  Did 
they  drag  him  under  the  dome  of  martyrdom,  that 
dark  vault  whose  great  circumference  was  already 


212  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

descending  upon  his  life  ?  Did  they  intimate  failure, 
shame,  torture,  to  his  shrinking  nerve?  Even  in 
sleep,  did  trouble  pursue  him?  Those  who  have 
suffered  much  know  how  difficult  it  is  for  misery  to 
let  the  victim  go,  in  dreams.  Was  the  anguish  of 
his  lot  more  merciful  to  him?  Did  the  machinery 
of  endurance  go  spinning  on  ?  Or  did  he  know  a 
little  respite?  Did  visions  of  the  great  joy  which 
kept  him  up  gently  visit  him  ?  Did  he  dream  of  the 
most  precious  possession  of  his  consciousness,  in  life 
or  death  always  foremost  to  his  mind,  —  his  faith 
in  his  God  ?  Did  his  Father  Invisible  comfort  the 
wornout  man  ? 

We  like  to  think  so,  for  he  slept  well.  The 
moonlight,  painting  his  quiet  face,  softened  its  lines 
of  care  and  deepened  its  expression  of  peace.  The 
nobility  of  his  brow,  the  beauty  of  his  delicate  lips, 
the  pathos  that  speaks  in  the  closed  eyelids  of  a  man 
acquainted  with  grief  and  bearing  it  patiently,  —  to 
these  unconsciousness  lent  the  grave  charm  which 
would  have  moved  an  indifferent  spectator,  and  which 
was  touching  to  those  who  loved  him. 

But  they  who  loved  him  were  not  watching  him 
now.  Suddenly,  startled  from  a  deep  slumber, 
rested  and  refreshed,  he  was  aware  that  there  was 
an  unusual  commotion  on  the  boat.  The  little  craft 
was  laboring  painfully  in  the  trough  of  a  heavy  sea. 
One  of  the  sudden  squalls  for  which  capricious 
Gennesaret  was  famous  had  struck  the  lake.  The 
wind  drew  down  from  the  gorges  of  the  hills  in 
dangerous  flaws  and  gusts.  The  water  was  smitten 
to  madness.  The  full  moon  had  gone  under  a  thick 


ACROSS  THE  LAKE  213 

cloud.  The  light  was  gray  and  wan.  Foam  flew. 
The  bow  plunged  too  deep.  Water  was  rushing 
over  the  rails.  The  experienced  crew  were  thor- 
oughly frightened,  and  that  with  good  reason.  The 
boat  was  in  danger  of  swamping. 

The  fishermen  had  lost  their  heads.  The  lateen 
sail  was  already  down ;  they  were  in  too  great  depth 
to  anchor ;  they  had  not  been  able  to  keep  head  to 
the  wind ;  their  rudder  refused  to  do  its  duty ;  and 
the  boat  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  sea.  They  clam- 
bered aft  in  terror.  One  of  them  had  roughly 
awakened  the  Rabbi,  and  they  were  all  crying  out 
together : 

"  Master  !  Master  !  We  are  perishing  !  "  He 
rose  to  his  feet  quietly.  The  fishermen,  all  their 
lives  used  to  the  tricks  of  Gennesaret,  were  alto- 
gether demoralized.  Their  rude  voices  rang  above 
the  roar  of  the  storm :  "  Save  us !  save  us !  save 
us!"  In  fact,  the  boat  was  practically  sinking. 
And  they  were  far  from  either  shore,  too  far  for 
swimming.  The  situation  was  serious  enough. 

A  strange  expression  crossed  the  countenance  of 
Jesus.  He  seemed  more  surprised  at  the  fears  of 
his  friends  than  disturbed  at  the  common  danger. 

But  he  turned  his  attention  at  once  to  the  storm. 
He  seemed  to  study  it  as  a  subject  which  he  must 
grasp,  —  intensely,  because  it  must  be  grasped  in  a 
moment.  Indeed,  there  were  no  moments  to  lose ; 
for  the  water  was  dashing  over  bow  and  stern,  and 
was  filling  the  boat  rapidly. 

He  seemed  to  make  a  curiously  fine  distinction 
between  the  wind,  which  was  the  offender  in  the 


214  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

trouble,  and  the  passive  sea,  which  was  only  the 
helpless  agent.  Suddenly  there  shot  from  his  lips 
a  severe  rebuke ;  as  if  the  wind  were  a  conscious 
and  a  guilty  thing,  and  as  if  he  were  lord  of  it ;  as 
if  he  and  nature  understood  each  other  better  than 
he  and  man.  As  if  it  acknowledged  the  order,  the 
wind  went  down  meekly.  There  fell  upon  the  air 
one  of  the  sudden  calms,  quite  possible  on  the  lake, 
but  which  there  was  no  evident  reason  to  expect  just 
then.  The  moon  swept  out  from  the  cloud.  In  the 
reviving  light,  the  crew  saw  one  another's  terror- 
stricken  faces,  and  his  who  showed  no  fear.  He 
stood  serene,  smiling,  with  one  upraised  hand  and 
arm,  a  statue  of  strength  and  assurance.  In  a  very 
low  tone  they  heard  him  speaking  to  the  water ;  not 
as  he  had  addressed  the  wind,  authoritatively  and 
like  a  master  calling  to  account,  but  in  a  sweet, 
persuasive  voice,  such  as  one  might  use  to  a  nervous 
woman  or  a  frenzied  child :  "  Hush  !  peace !  peace, 
and  be  still!" 

The  noisy  sea  trembled ;  the  choppy  waves  sank ; 
the  lake  began  to  ripple ;  the  ripple  wasted  away ; 
then  such  a  calm  took  the  water  as  lay  like  a  sheen 
of  silk  from  shore  to  shore.  On  it  there  fell  a 
strange  silence.  The  keel  was  even.  The  fishermen 
began  to  bail  out  the  water  from  the  boat.  They 
did  not  speak.  But  the  Rabbi  watched  them  with 
a  kind  of  astonished  sadness. 

"  How  is  it  ?  "  he  said  slowly,  —  "  how  is  it  that 
ye  have  not  any  faith  ?  Why  are  ye  so  afraid  ?  " 

His  voice  had  a  wistful  accent  to  it,  as  if  his 
heart  ached  more  than  any  one  of  them  could  know ; 


ACROSS  THE   LAKE  215 

as  if  lie  had  expected  to  be  trusted,  and  they  had 
disappointed  him.  He  did  not  blame  them.  He 
went  back  to  the  stern  and  lay  down  again  quietly 
upon  his  pillow. 

But  the  fishermen  did  not  answer  him.  They  did 
not  dare.  Each  man  of  them  looked  at  the  other, 
quailing.  They  hung  their  heads,  half  in  shame 
and  half  in  fright.  They  were  more  afraid  of  the 
Rabbi  at  that  moment  than  they  had  been  of  the 
storm. 

"  What  manner  of  man  is  this  ?  "  they  muttered ; 
"  why,  the  wind  and  the  sea  obey  him !  "  It  was 
the  sailors'  supreme  tribute.  They  could  not  go 
beyond  it. 

The  boat  came  to  land  in  the  night  on  the  shore 
of  Gergesa,  —  a  populous  coast.  Throughout  the 
whole  region  the  cliffs  adjacent  to  the  towns  were 
burrowed  with  caves  and  tombs,  the  shelter  of  the 
dead,  and  of  certain  of  the  living  who  were  less  for- 
tunate than  the  dead.  Flocks  and  herds  lay  in  dim 
blots  over  the  pasturage  of  this  hilly  locality.  Oc- 
casionally some  wretched  human  figure  flitted  across 
the  landscape,  emerging  from  blackness  and  becom- 
ing quickly  submerged  therein.  As  the  Rabbi  and 
his  friends  landed,  two  of  these  human  wraiths  fol- 
lowed them  with  ghostly  silence  and  pertinacity. 
Peter  and  the  others  pointed  them  out  to  Jesus, 
whispering.  The  bravest  man  in  the  twelve  looked 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  uncanny  sight;  the  weird 
figures,  the  feeling  that  only  midnight  gives,  were 
startling  to  every  nerve.  One  of  the  disciples  in- 


216  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

stinctively  took  up  a  stone  in  self-protection,  but  it 
fell  harmlessly.  One  look  from  the  Rabbi  seemed 
to  thrust  it  out  of  his  hand. 

Jesus  did  not  join  in  the  repugnance  of  his  friends 
to  the  dreary  spectacle.  Indeed,  he  expressed 
neither  distaste  nor  surprise  when  the  bolder  and 
madder  of  the  two  maniacs  flung  himself  in  the  way 
of  the  party  and  addressed  the  Rabbi  with  all  the 
ingenuity  of  an  insane  vocabulary,  appealing  for 
protection  against  the  delusions  of  his  disease. 

These  were  acute.  We  are  not  yet  wise  enough 
in  the  finer  psychology  to  pronounce  dogmatically 
upon  much  easier  questions  in  alienism  than  that 
involved  in  the  particular  hallucination  so  common 
to  the  East,  to  that  age,  and  those  people.  The 
lunatics  wholly  believed  themselves  to  be  possessed 
of  devils.  Jesus,  like  expert  physicians  much  less 
successful  than  himself,  did  not  in  the  least  antago- 
nize a  deranged  patient  by  fighting  his  whim.  What- 
ever view  he  personally  held  of  the  subject  is,  to  the 
reader  of  the  story,  entirely  secondary  in  importance. 
Insanity  is  a  dark  sea  on  whose  shore  we  have  not 
even  yet  ventured  far;  and  science  is  a  frail  boat 
which  may  or  may  not  hold  the  points  of  compass. 
Whether  demonic  possession  was  the  delusion  of  a 
blatant  superstition,  or  should  ever  become  mate- 
rial of  an  exact  science,  Jesus,  if  he  knew,  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  explain.  He  delivered  no  hom- 
ily on  evil  spirits.  He  delayed  to  elucidate  no  views 
on  the  nicer  problems  of  mental  disorder.  He  sim- 
ply went  to  work  and  healed  the  case. 

It  was  a  bad  case;  one  of  the  worst  of  the  in- 


ACROSS  THE  LAKE  217 

curable,  against  which  the  rude  medical  art  of  the 
times  was  hopelessly  helpless,  and  about  which  the 
humanity  of  the  times  did  not  feel  any  responsibil- 
ity. Few  pitied  and  most  forgot  the  homicidal,  sui- 
cidal wretches  who  had  been  driven  from  home  and 
from  all  human  society.  It  needed  Jesus  to  invent 
tenderness  to  the  insane.  It  swept  through  his 
heart  that  night  in  a  surging  movement  of  pity  and 
power. 

We  have  here  one  of  those  sombre  pictures  in 
which  a  great  moral  emotion  has  taken  the  brush 
and  painted  in  the  only  high  lights.  The  gloom  of 
the  land  of  caves  filled  a  dismal  background.  A 
large  herd  of  two  thousand  swine,  disturbed  by  the 
cries  of  the  maniacs  and  disinclined  to  sleep,  were 
stirring  uneasily  on  their  pasture  at  the  top  of  the 
steep  grade  which  ended  in  the  water.  The  fisher- 
men, uncomfortable  and  puzzled,  were  gathered 
closely  about  their  Rabbi,  —  to  protect  or  to  be  pro- 
tected, they  hardly  knew  which.  The  maniacs  were 
gibbering  and  shrieking ;  he,  the  worst  case,  bleed- 
ing with  self-inflicted  wounds  where  he  had  cut  him- 
self with  sharp  stones.  In  the  centre  of  the  group, 
tall  and  quiet,  Jesus  stood  thoughtfully.  The  moon 
brought  out  all  the  nobility  of  his  face  and  form. 
He  seemed  to  absorb  light  from  the  sky,  and  to 
radiate  it  upon  the  little  spot  of  earth  on  which  he 
trod. 

The  maniac,  or  the  demoniac,  —  call  him  as  you 
please,  —  had  something  of  the  shrewd  wit  not  un- 
common to  the  deranged.  By  whatever  law  illumi- 
nated, he  recognized  the  supreme  superiority  of  the 


218  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Nazarene  more  quickly  than  most  sane  men.  The 
friends  of  Jesus  were  confounded  to  see  the  lunatic 
on  the  ground  at  the  Eabbi's  feet  in  the  attitude  of 
worship,  and  to  hear  him  crying  shrilly : 

"  Thou  son  of  the  Most  High  God  !  " 

"  Thou  spirit  unclean !  "  replied  Jesus  authorita- 
tively, "  come  out  of  the  man  !  " 

A  few  moments  of  great  confusion  followed  this 
command.  The  shrieks  of  the  lunatic,  his  protests, 
the  disturbed  comments  of  the  fishermen,  the  re- 
newed entreaties  of  the  maniac,  were  hardly  quieted 
by  the  calm  replies  of  Jesus. 

Suddenly  sharp  cries  came  from  another  direc- 
tion. The  keepers  of  the  flocks  above  were  calling 
for  help.  The  great  herd  of  swine,  alarmed  by 
the  unusual  scene  and  by  the  shouts  of  the  mani- 
acs, thoroughly  demoralized,  had  taken  fright,  and 
were  running  down  the  declivity.  In  the  moonlight 
they  could  be  plainly  seen  rushing  from  shadow  to 
shadow,  from  the  pasture  behind" to  the  lake  below. 
The  keepers  ran  to  and  fro  helplessly.  It  was  a 
perfect  stampede  ;  one  of  the  curious  animal  im- 
pulses which  no  man  can  ever  understand,  and  few 
control.  Before  it  could  be  stayed,  the  whole  herd, 
unable  to  stop  on  the  steep  grade,  the  foremost 
crowded  by  those  in  the  rear,  had  pushed  to  the 
edge  of  the  water  and  were  drowned. 

Strange  things  were  said  about  this  scene.  Jesus 
was  accused  of  having  ordered  a  legion  —  that  was 
to  say,  a  large  and  indefinite  number  —  demons 
from  the  man  into  the  animals.  His  disciples,  sure 
only  of  this  one  thing,  that  their  master  was  the 


ACROSS  THE  LAKE  219 

kindest,  the  tenderest  of  all  men  living,  or  who  had 
ever  lived,  remembered  that  he  had  conversed  in- 
dulgently with  the  maniac,  suffering  but  not  com- 
manding in  the  man's  disordered  mind  this  view  of 
the  stampede.  Peter,  John,  and  James,  and  the 
rest,  were  simple  men.  The  demonology  of  their 
times  was  much  less  mysterious  to  them  than  their 
Rabbi.  Whether  the  swine  went  over,  or  were  sent 
over,  was  a  matter  of  little  consequence  to  them. 
Whatever  Jesus  commanded  or  permitted  needed  no 
explanation.  The  animals  were  gone.  But  the  man 
was  here,  sane  —  a  happy,  reasonable  person,  asking 
for  clothes  and  food  and  home ;  acting  like  other 
people,  and  pouring  passionate  gratitude  at  the  feet 
of  the  healer,  who  stood  quietly  amid  the  confusion, 
his  peaceful  face  brushed  by  a  wing  of  sadness. 
Was  he  thinking  about  the  swine  in  the  lake  ?  The 
mystery  of  animal  life  sacrificed  to  that  of  man  had 
not  begun  to  arouse  a  question  in  the  ordinary  mind 
in  those  times.  His  extraordinary  mind,  or  extraor- 
dinary heart,  always  moved  first  in  the  direction  of 
pity.  It  was  not  one  of  his  easiest  tasks  in  life 
that,  in  the  capacity  of  a  dispenser  of  mercy,  he  had 
sometimes  to  choose  between  the  lesser  pity  and  the 
larger. 

At  all  events  the  man  was  saved,  the  brutes  were 
lost.  The  owners  of  the  property  were  exasperated. 
The  residents  of  the  region  were  terrified.  They 
intimated  to  the  healer  that  his  presence  among 
them  was  not  desirable.  Had  he  been  an  ordinary 
juggler,  they  would  have  ordered  him  off.  But  this 
was  not  jugglery..  Jesus  was  no  common  sorcerer. 


220  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

The  most  ignorant  man  on  either  side  of  the  lake 
knew  better  than  that.  In  truth  they  were  all  very 
much  afraid  of  him.  The  cured  maniac,  longing 
to  keep  close  to  the  healer  who  had  given  him  back 
his  reason,  but  gently  forbidden  to  do  so,4raveled 
here  and  there,  joyously  relating  the  story  with  the 
authority  of  a  hero  in  the  scene.  The  whole  coast 
was  astir.  Every  other  popular  emotion  seemed  to 
have  melted  in  terror.  Jesus  was  made  so  uncom- 
fortable that  he  took  to  his  boat  again,  and  returned 
across  the  lake. 


CHAPTER  X 

FIVE   THOUSAND    GUESTS 

HE  was  at  home  once  more,  but  he  was  not  per- 
mitted to  rest.  Crowds  larger  than  he  had  left  re- 
ceived him.  He  was  surrounded  and  overwhelmed. 
It  seemed  as  if  all  invalid  Galilee  were  moaning 
after  him.  In  the  heart  of  his  busiest  and  weariest 
hour  an  urgent  demand  came  up.  He  was  wanted 
for  a  life  and  death  case.  An  officer  of  the  Jewish  > 
church,  an  important  person,  Jairus  by  name,  had  a 
little  daughter,  dearly  cherished.  She  was  scarcely 
twelve  years  old,  just  at  the  lovely  age,  —  not  yet 
past  her  play-days,  but  already  with  the  dainty  airs 
of  a  little  woman,  —  a  winsome  maid,  her  father's 
darling.  She  lay  at  the  point  of  death,  and  in  hot 
haste  messengers  had  been  sent  for  the  Nazarene. 
But  the  distress  of  the  father  outran  the  swiftest 
feet.  He  touched  the  unconscious  child  with  the 
despair  of  one  whose  last  kiss  cannot  be  returned  by 
the  dearest  lips  in  the  world,  and  went  desolately 
out  to  try  in  person  to  find  the  healer ;  at  whom  the 
regular  physicians  had  scoffed.  But  the  physicians 
had  given  up  the  case. 

At  the  feet  of  Jesus,  Jairus  flung  himself  down 
like  a  slave,  and  such  an  agony  went  up  in  his  face 
and  attitude  as  a  cold  man  could  not  easily  have 


222  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

resisted.  Jesus,  melting  with  sympathy,  tenderly 
reassured  the  father,  and  started  at  once  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  ruler's  house. 

But  what  a  throng !  When  he  tried  to  pass 
through  the  people,  they  closed  like  a  round  wall 
about  him.  It  was,  indeed,  a  wall  of  human  misery, 
blank  and  vast.  Jesus  felt  almost  stifled  by  it,  as  if 
it  were  crushing  him.  The  unhappy,  the  evil,  the 
sick  —  oh,  the  uncounted,  neglected  sick  !  —  uprose 
upon  him.  It  was  like  an  insurrection  of  the  woe 
of  the  world,  catching  sight,  for  the  first  time,  of  the 
only  alleviation  it  had  ever  seen.  The  healer's  face 
changed  perceptively.  He  seemed  to  stagger  for  the 
moment  in  that  riot  of  misery. 

Such  a  mass  of  humanity  pressed  upon  him  that 
it  was  impossible  to  move. 

At  that  moment,  stealing  past  the  push  and  rush 
of  the  thoughtless  throng,  a  timid  hand  touched  the 
fringe  of  his  talith ;  and,  terrified,  withdrew  instantly. 
But  as  instantly  he  felt  it,  —  who  knew  how  ? 

"  Who  touched  me  ?  "  he  asked  quickly.  No  per- 
son in  the  crowd  replied. 

"  Strength  goes  out  of  me,"  insisted  the  healer. 
"Who  was  it?" 

Jesus  and  Jairus  walked  together  to  the  ruler's 
house.  The  father  did  net  speak  any  longer.  He 
was  afraid  of  offending  the  Rabbi.  After  those  first 
hot  words,  the  first  wild  moment,  what  could  he  do  ? 
When  the  servant  came,  weeping,  and  told  him  that 
it  was  too  late,  —  not  to  trouble  the  Master,  for  the 
little  maid  was  gone,  —  his  heart  had  broken  in  one 


FIVE  THOUSAND  GUESTS  223 

mad  outcry.  This  great  healer,  this  mysterious  man, 
so  famous  for  his  tenderness,  so  marvelous  for  his 
pity,  must  needs  fail  him,  —  him,  Jairus,  out  of  all 
Palestine,  and  that  in  the  hour  of  his  terrible  need ! 
The  fact  could  not  be  denied  that  Jesus  had  stopped 
on  the  way  to  a  dying  patient  to  cure  an  old,  chronic 
case. 

The  woman  could  have  been  healed  just  as  well  to- 
night, to-morrow,  next  week.  But  he  had  lingered. 
And  the  child  was  dead. 

What  had  he,  the  desperate  father,  said  in  his 
anguish  ?  Had  he  blamed,  had  he  reproached  the 
Nazarene  ?  But,  if  he  had,  Jesus  exhibited  no  of- 
fense at  the  outbreak.  His  sympathy  with  the  poor 
father  was  far  too  high  a  thing.  He  could  not  stoop 
to  notice  how  the  madness  of  grief  had  treated  him. 
A  lower  nature  may  do  that. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  said  tenderly  ;  "  only  be- 
lieve !  "  But  his  face  was  very  grave.  And,  by  a 
single  motion  of  his  expressive  hand,  he  ordered  all 
his  disciples  back  but  three,  —  Peter,  James,  and 
John,  his  dearest.  The  group  entered  the  ruler's 
house. 

The  house  was  not  silent ;  Oriental  mourners  had 
already  taken  possession  of  it.  Obtrusive  wails  and 
groans,  mingled  with  genuine  sobs  and  tears,  filled 
the  place.  Jesus  seemed  surprised  at  the  condition 
in  which  he  found  the  family. 

"  The  child  is  not  dead,"  he  said  decidedly.  Some 
of  the  neighbors,  who  did  not  altogether  believe  in 
the  famous  healer,  began  to  laugh.  It  was  a  deri- 
sive laugh,  —  a  cold  sound  in  that  house  of  woe,  — 


224  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

and  it  did  not  please  him.  A  keen  rebuke  shot  from 
his  mild  eyes  at  the  unseemly  scorn. 

"  Nay,"  he  repeated,  "  she  is  not  dead.  She  is 
asleep." 

He  spoke  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  was  not  to  be 
gainsaid.  He  did  not  try  to  make  the  most  of  the 
case.  He  did  not  say,  "  Yes,  this  is  death.  But  I 
am  lord  of  death."  It  would  have  been  far  easier 
to  do  than  to  cling  to  his  view  of  the 'truth  as  he  did, 
against  the  convictions  of  the  family.  He  went  into 
the  sick-room  and  looked  at  the  child. 

"  This  is  sleep,"  he  persisted.  .  .  .  The  father's 
sobs  had  ceased.  The  mother  lifted  her  face,  dis- 
colored with  tears,  worn  with  watching,  and  piteously 
raised  her  hands.  The  three  friends  of  the  Rabbi 
stood  reverently  wondering. 

Jesus  silently  regarded  the  little  maid. 

She  lay  unconscious,  and  was  quite  rigid.  The 
rare  trances  known  to  medical  science  show  less  evi- 
dence of  death  than  the  child  did.  She  lay  on  her 
pallet,  cold,  with  the  pathetic,  wondering  look  which 
death  casts  upon  childhood,  as  if  she  said  : 

"  Why,  this  is  what  happens  to  old  people !  " 

Jesus  looked  at  her  with  a  strange  expression. 
His  eyes  seemed  to  say  : 

"It  is  between  me  and  thee,  little  maid.  We 
understand." 

He  was  known  to  be  very  fond  of  children,  and 
they  of  him ;  he  was  sometimes  seen  with  them 
climbing  over  his  lap  and  laughing,  as  they  put  their 
arms  about  his  neck  with  the  unerring  identification 
of  those  whom  they  can  trust,  which  only  children 


FIVE   THOUSAND  GUESTS  225 

and  dogs  possess.  Mothers  brought  their  babies  to 
him  for  his  blessing,  and  it  is  recorded  how  lovingly 
he  gave  it. 

Now  he  looked  at  the  little  girl  with  the  tender- 
ness that  is  only  to  be  expected  of  those  in  whom 
the  love  of  children  is  profound  and  genuine. 

She  seemed  to  quiver  beneath  his  look,  but  her 
color  and  her  attitude  did  not  change.  Then  he  took 
her  by  the  hand. 

Her  little,  wasted  fingers  lay  for  a  few  moments 
in  his  nervous  and  vital  grasp  ;  then  he  felt  them 
tremble.  .  .  .  Who  sees  the  instant  when  the  lily 
blossoms  ?  Who  could  have  detected  the  moment 
of  time  in  which  the  child  began  to  stir  ?  Was  it 
his  hand  that  moved,  or  hers  that  directed  his  slowly 
upward  till  it  reached  her  pillow,  and  so  came  upon 
a  level  with  her  face  ? 

#It  did  not  seem  sudden  or  startling,  but  only  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  when  the  little  girl 
laid  her  cheek  upon  his  palm.  .  .  . 

"  Give  her  something  to  eat,"  said  the  healer, 
quite  in  his  ordinary  tones.  This  sensible  and  com- 
monplace order  restored  their  senses  to  the  excited 
household.  But  Jairus  remembered  how  he  had 
thought  of  Jesus,  —  perhaps  how  he  had  spoken  to 
him,  when  the  Nazarene  stopped  to  cure  the  chronic 
case  ;  and  the  father  felt  ashamed ;  but  he  did  not 
know  how  to  say  so.  And  the  little  arms  about 
his  neck  were  warm  !  How  could  he  think  of  any- 
thing else  in  the  world  ?  Jesus  seemed  to  take  this 
as  a  matter  of  course.  That  was  the  wonderful,  the 


226  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

beautiful  thing.  Jairus  felt  as  if  he  could  worship 
the  Rabbi. 

The  whole  countryside  rang  with  the  story. 

"  Death  !  A  second  time  !  Why,  he  cheats  the 
grave,  as  another  may  cheat  in  war  or  a  bargain  ! 
Who  is  this  man  who  does  the  deeds  of  the  living 
God  ?  "  But  Jesus  had  denied  that  the  child  was 
dead.  He  never  retracted  the  denial. 

It  would  have  been  easy  for  him  to  rise  just  then 
on  a  great  flight  of  popularity,  had  he  chosen  to 
make  the  most  of  this  reanimation.  Instead,  he 
made  the  least  of  it.  Content  with  the  doing  of  the 
thing,  not  concerned  for  the  name  of  it,  he  went 
serenely  on,  as  if  his  own  reputation  as  a  worker  of 
wonders  were  the  last  thing  in  the  world  about 
which  he  .had  a  care.  In  point  of  fact  it  was.  He 
had  so  much  loftier  aims  that  he  could  well  afford  to 
let  the  lesser  go. 

He  had  at  this  time,  if  no  more  leisure,  at  least 
more  solitude  than  usual,  in  which  to  reflect  upon 
his  position  and  his  future ;  for  he  had  dismissed  his 
chosen  friends  on  an  evangelistic  tour  about  the 
country,  dividing  them  two  by  two,  selecting  these 
couples  with  great  care,  that  they  might  supplement 
one  another's  temperament.  We  wonder  to  whom  he 
united  John  the  preferred,  —  gentlest  and  loveliest 
of  companions  !  Whose  calmer  nature  moderated 
the  hot  temper  of  Peter,  the  spokesman  of  the 
group  ?  Who  had  the  warm  faith  to  melt  the  doubts 
of  the  skeptical  Thomas  ?  Whose  penetration  kept 
watch  upon  the  moods  of  Judas  the  treacherous  ? 


JAIRUS'  DAUGHTER 


FIVE  THOUSAND  GUESTS  227 

To  these  men  Jesus  now  solemnly  made  over  a 
measure  of  his  own  gift ;  as  if  his  power  to  relieve 
human  misery  were  a  thing  communicable  at  his  will 
to  one  who  loved  and  trusted  him.  These  men  re- 
ceived a  certain  amount  of  quality  as  healers,  and 
of  success  as  missionaries.  In  his  enthusiasm  for 
humanity  Jesus  did  not  draw  the  line  at  anything, 
but  tried  to  make  his  disciples  wonder-workers  as 
efficient  as  himself. 

"  Raise  the  dead,"  he  said.  It  is  not  recorded  of 
them  that  they  did  this.  Had  he  too  much  faith  in 
them,  or  they  too  little  in  him  ? 

When  the  twelve  came  back  to  their  Rabbi,  there 
had  reached  him  news  so  black  that  the  experiences 
of  their  missionary  trip  —  although  they  told  him 
all  about  them  volubly  enough  —  were  put  well  into 
the  background.  During  their  absence  had  occurred 
the  terrible  supper  at  the  palace  of  Herod,  when  a 
girl  danced  away  the  life  of  the  greatest  of  prophets 
and  one  of  the  grandest  of  men. 

The  execution  of  John,  after  all,  had  been  sudden 
and  was  unexpected.  Jesus  was  overwhelmed  by  it. 

He  received  the  intelligence  in  silence,  and  went 
away  alone  as  soon  as  he  could.  He  spent  that  night 
by  the  sea  in  the  solitary  prayer  which,  while  it  made 
such  havoc  of  his  vitality,  seemed  strangely  to  renew 
the  very  treasure  that  it  wasted.  No  man  was  wit- 
ness to  those  hours  of  grief  and  of  resolve. 

In  his  personal  bereavement  a  consciousness  of 
personal  peril  now  began  distinctly  to  mingle.  Jesus 
was  not  the  man  to  be  deceived  by  this  thrust  from 
the  government.  If  he  had  ever  doubted  before, 


228  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

he  could  doubt  no  longer  that,  as  a  political  suspect, 
he  himself  was  liable  to  mortal  dangers. 

A  strange  story  reached  his  ears  about  this  time, 
which  did  not  tend  to  allay  his  discomfort  or  the 
fears  of  his  friends.  For,  when  the  rumors  about  his 
career  went  up  to  the  palace,  the  murderer  shook. 
Herod  Antipas,  turning  pale  with  the  superstition  of 
guilt,  uttered  a  cry  whose  weakness  has  gone  into 
history  with  his  unenviable  name. 

"  This,"  he  said,  "  is  John,  the  man  I  beheaded. 
He  has  risen  from  the  dead  to  torment  me  !  " 

Jesus,  worried  by  dark  facts  and  darker  rumors, 
was  thrown  more  and  more  into  an  inner  solitude 
which  no  one  could  approach.  His  growing  convic- 
tion that  it  was  impossible  to  make  the  people  under- 
stand the  purpose  of  his  life  made  him,  at  this  time, 
a  very  sad  man. 

An  event  soon  occurred  which  revealed,  past  all 
mistaking,  the  significant  and  to  hiui  fatal  truth. 
Up  to  this  time  he  had  secretly  hoped  something 
from  human  gratitude  and  from  human  intelligence. 
He  was  soon  to  learn  that  he  had  nothing  to  expect 
from  either. 

It  was  at  Bethsaida,  upon  the  lake,  —  a  pleasant 
fishing-town  ("  House  of  Fish,"  as  the  word  goes), 
full  of  the  cheerful  bustle  and  the  charming  scenery 
which  lend  such  vivacity  to  maritime  life.  There 
were  two  Bethsaidas,  not  of  the  same  province.  The 
peril  of  Jesus  was  now  so  obvious  that  he  had  found 
it  necessary,  for  the  time  being,  to  take  himself  out 
of  the  political  jurisdiction  of  Antipas.  From  the 
fortress  of  Machaerus  John's  meek  spirit  had  bravely 
gone  to  God  who  made  and  loved  it. 


FIVE  THOUSAND  GUESTS  229 

John's  troubles  were  over ;  but  Herod's  were  not ; 
and  those  of  Jesus  had  just  begun.  Haunted  by  re- 
morse for  the  cowardly  slaughter  of  an  innocent 
prisoner,  Herod  Antipas  was  very  uncomfortable. 
But  his  superstitious  uneasiness  quickly  developed 
into  a  more  solid  and  reasonable  alarm. 

The  whole  country  was  ringing  with  the  name  and 
with  the  achievements  of  the  Nazarene.  The  mis- 
sionary trip  of  the  twelve  had  immediate  results 
which  were  almost  disastrous.  They  had  circulated 
the  doctrines  of  their  Kabbi  so  widely  that  it  was 
impossible  any  longer  to  restrain  these  within  local 
limits.  Everybody  was  talking  of  Jesus,  —  of  his 
mysterious  personality,  his  incredible  deeds,  his 
partly  understood  claims.  That  these  could  be  any- 
thing but  political,  it  was  impossible  for  the  Roman 
or  the  Hebrew  mind  to  conceive.  The  palace  now 
began  distinctly  to  fear  an  insurrection. 

Jesus  was  no  hot-headed  enthusiast,  narrow  of 
sight,  and  blundering  into  avoidable  dangers.  For 
a  man  sacrificing  himself  utterly  and  with  passion- 
ate gladness  to  a  principle,  he  was  remarkably  care- 
ful in  his  public  movements.  He  never  anticipated 
his  perils  unnecessarily.  He  was  perfectly  sane,  self- 
possessed,  even  adroit  in  his  relation  to  affairs.  He 
never  forgot  the  true  mathematics  of  a  great  work, 
which  may  put  the  terms  of  the  equation  a  long 
way  apart.  He  did  not  allow,  as  smaller  souls 
may  do,  a  false  ideal  of  courage  to  blind  him  to  the 
true. 

The  time  had  not  come  to  hurl  his  life  away; 
a  premature  sacrifice  was  not  in  his  plan.  Herod 


230  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Antipas  could  make  no  immediate  trouble  for  a  sus- 
pect beyond  his  own  boundaries,  and  out  of  sight 
might  be  out  of  mind.  Even  for  a  day  or  so  it 
might  be  worth  while  to  be  absent  from  Herod's 
range  of  vision.  Jesus  prudently  went  into  Iturea, 
the  dominion  of  Philip  the  Tetrarch. 

Upper  Bethsaida  (known  as  Bethsaida  Julias), 
at  the  northeastern  corner  of  the  lake,  was  only  six 
miles  from  Capernaum  by  water,  though  much  fur- 
ther by  land,  and  by  either  route  the  town  was  easily 
accessible. 

Jesus  took  his  boat  and  sailed  across  the  lake. 
The  wind  was  light,  and  the  voyage  was  a  slow  one. 
Seeking  seclusion  above  all  things  at  that  time,  he 
had  chosen  to  land  south  of  Bethsaida,  off  the  plain 
of  Batihah,  in  an  uninhabited  locality. 

It  was  a  brilliant  day.  The  sun  and  the  sea  were 
vivid.  The  sky  was  strong.  The  spring  air  was  not 
too  hot,  but  soft  and  pleasant.  It  was  Nisan,  the 
Month  of  Flowers.  Vegetation  was  at  its  richest 
and  brightest.  Scarlet  anemones  ran  everywhere. 
Touches  of  color,  like  candles  of  white  and  pink,  told 
where  the  rock  roses  burned.  The  highly  cultivated 
grass  was  like*plush  to  the  eye  and  to  the  hand. 

The  boat  rocked  gently  upon  the  water.  The 
fishermen  moored  it,  and  followed  their  Rabbi, 
wondering.  For,  see !  It  looked  as  if  all  the  world 
had  come  to  meet  him.  Plainly,  he  was  to  be 
overwhelmed  again. 

This  was  far  larger  and  other  than  a  local  crowd. 
It  was  swelled  by  pilgrims  en  route  to  the  Passover, 
and  already  it  was  perceived  that  the  very  persons 


FIVE  THOUSAND  GUESTS  231 

whom  he  had  left  behind,  a  throng  accumulating  as 
it  moved,  had  overtaken  Jesus.  The  people,  won- 
dering only  why  the  Nazarene  had  sailed  away,  had 
come  around  by  land  from  Capernaum  ;  and  were 
rapidly  massing  to  meet  him  when  he  landed,  intend- 
ing to  head  off  his  departure  if,  in  fact,  he  meant 
to  leave  them.  The  consequence  was  a  reception 
several  thousand  strong. 

The  keen  eye  of  Jesus  swiftly  took  in  the  size  of 
the  crowd.  He  perceived  that  he  was  to  have  no 
ordinary  audience,  and  that  it  would  require  no 
common  handling.  He  walked  thoughtfully  on  to 
meet  it. 

It  was  a  lonely  plain  where  he  landed,  and,  after 
glancing  at  the  topography  of  the  place  and  the 
position  of  the  crowd,  he  climbed  a  knoll  and  began 
to  give  himself  to  their  wants.  The  usual  propor- 
tion of  the  diseased  were  in  the  throng.  Even  to-day, 
the  traveler  in  the  East  is  impressed  with  the  hope- 
less, superstitious  sick,  who  fill  the  roadsides  wailing 
for  relief  which  cannot  be  given  to  such  ignorance. 
The  sight  of  invalids  drinking  milk  in  which  a  line 
of  the  Koran  has  been  washed,  or  of  the  disabled, 
suffering  wounds  to  be  stuffed  with  cayenne  pepper, 
or  the  acutely  ill  swallowing  prescriptions  com- 
pounded of  scorpions,  silkworms,  Spanish  flies,  and 
centipedes,  gives  us  an  idea  of  the  kind  of  thing  with 
which  Jesus  was  always  surrounded. 

The  demands  upon  him  that  day  at  Batihah  were 
enormous.  He  healed  and  preached,  and  healed 
again.  He  denied  himself  to  nobody,  and  refused 
no  act  of  mercy.  He  spoke  with  unusual  fervor  and 


232  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

healed  with  memorable  power.  The  people  seemed 
hardly  to  know  which  they  wanted  more,  —  health 
for  the  soul  or  health  for  the  body  ;  and  hung  upon 
him  heavily,  taking  either  or  both,  or  anything  that 
he  might  give.  Meanwhile  their  number  was  grow- 
ing steadily,  and  became  and  remained  utterly  ab- 
sorbed in  him. 

The  day  began  to  decline.  The  hot  look  passed 
from  the  cheek  of  the  lake.  The  colors  of  the  sky 
softened.  The  wind  died  down.  The  thick,  short 
grass  took  on  the  golden  radiance  which  strikes 
slantwise  from  a  dipping  sun. 

The  throng  numbered  now  as  much  as  five  thou- 
sand men,  and  many  women  and  children  who  were 
not  counted.  These  were  of  various  nationalities,  — 
Hebrews,  Greeks,  Romans,  Arabians,  Persians, 
Phoenicians,  —  and  were  more  or  less  gorgeously 
dressed  in  the  gay  Oriental  taste  which  the  Eastern 
countries  shared  in  common.  It  was  a  motley  audi- 
ence, but  it  was  a  very  picturesque  one. 

Jesus  had  made  himself  heard  quite  plainly, 
though  in  the  open  air  and  by  so  many ;  but  as  he 
approached  the  end  of  his  afternoon  discourse,  his 
voice  deepened  and  lowered  with  feeling,  as  if  he 
felt  that  more  depended  upon  the  events  of  this  day 
than  he  could  explain  or  others  understand.  The 
hush  in  his  own  heart  extended  itself  to  his  audience, 
which  was  so  still  and  breathless  when  he  ceased 
to  speak  that  his  last  words  roused  an  echo,  gently 
answering  him. 

Then  a  little  bustle  set  in,  and  across  it  he  heard 
the  footsteps  of  two  or  three  of  his  friends,  who  had 


FIVE  THOUSAND  GUESTS  233 

fallen  back  to  common  life  again,  and  had  resumed 
its  cares.  One  of  his  disciples  was  speaking : 

"  Send  the  people  away,  Lord.  They  have  no- 
thing to  eat.  Look  at  them  !  " 

Then  the  preacher,  himself  pale  and  weary,  rous- 
ing from  the  abstraction  of  oratory,  saw  how  faint 
they  were,  —  these  people  who  had  come  so  far,  and 
had  been  so  entranced  by  his  address  that  they  had 
forgotten  even  to  notice  that  they  had  not  eaten,  and 
that  they  had  no  food  with  them.  It  was  an  invol- 
untary tribute  to  him,  which  he  could  but  notice. 
It  gratified  him,  and  gave  him  some  hope  that  his 
hard  day's  work  had  not  been  wasted. 

He  shook  his  head  when  his  anxious  friends  re- 
peated their  desire  to  disperse  the  crowd,  and  order 
them  away.  It  was  some  distance  to  Bethsaida  vil- 
lage, and  the  way  was  wearisome.  The  hospitality 
of  Jesus  was  warmly  aroused.  With  a  hearty  im- 
pulse to  treat  his  audience  as  his  guests,  he  made  a 
few  practical  inquiries  into  the  condition  of  the  com- 
missariat of  his  own  party.  Significantly,  Andrew 
exhibited  five  loaves  and  two  small  lake  fish.  This 
was  all  which  the  twelve  had  up  to  this  moment  pro- 
vided for  their  own  meagre  supper,  and  for  his  who 
had  preached  and  healed  all  that  severe  day.  The 
question  of  purchasing  supplies  was  now  discussed. 
But  it  was  calculated  that  between  thirty  and  forty 
dollars  would  be  needed  to  provide  any  sort  of  enter- 
tainment, however  simple,  for  so  vast  a  number  of 
guests.  To  the  poor  missionary  band  any  such  sum 
as  this  was  out  of  the  question,  and  the  twelve  were 
much  disturbed  that  the  Rabbi  did  not  make  short 


234  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

work  of  the  situation  and  command  the  crowd  to 
break  up. 

It  would  have  gone  away  at  his  wish.  Just  then 
it  would  have  done  anything  for  him.  Impulsive, 
ardent,  excitable,  the  throng  was  his.  The  people 
—  the  sick  whom  he  had  cured,  the  troubled  whom 
he  had  comforted,  the  erring  whom  he  had  startled, 
those  longing  for  better  lives  whom  he  had  invigor- 
ated —  at  that  moment  adored  him  so  that  they  did 
not  see  how  they  could  leave  him.  This  moved 
him,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not  send  them  away. 
A  happy  look  swept  his  face.  It  was  one  of  the 
rare  moments  when  he  felt  that  he  was  loved  by 
the  humanity  he  loved,  and  that  what  he  did  and 
suffered  for  it  was  not  all  thrown  away.  It  is  plea- 
sant to  think  that  he  had  this  hour  of  comfort,  and 
that  he  had  it  just  then  and  there. 

Suddenly  came  this  unexpected  order :  "  Make 
the  company  sit  down.  Separate  them  in  groups  of 
fifties  on  the  grass.  Then  feed  them  as  I  shall  com- 
mand you." 

The  disciples,  who  had  learned  by  this  time  to 
question  no  order,  however  astounding,  which  their 
master  might  give,  obeyed  him,  perplexed  enough. 
With  precision  the  immense  throng  was  divided,  and 
delegates  were  deputed  to  attend  to  the  wants  of 
each  division  in  its  turn.  This  man  of  peace  showed 
a  military  skill  in  the  management  of  great  bodies 
of  men.  The  practical  good  sense,  so  rare  in  the 
exalted  temperament,  but  so  evident  in  his,  mar- 
shaled his  thousands  like  an  experienced  general. 
Indeed,  we  must  remember  that,  in  the  handling  of 


FIVE  THOUSAND  GUESTS  235 

masses,  Jesus  had  acquired  an  extraordinary  experi- 
ence. Palestine,  a  small  country,  about  one  hundred 
and  sixty  miles  long  and  seventy  broad,  was  more 
thickly  settled  than  Massachusetts.  This  little  land 
is  thought  to  have  held  between  four  and  five  millions 
of  people.  There  were  two  hundred  and  four  town- 
ships in  Galilee  alone ;  the  smallest  had  a  population 
of  fifteen  thousand  souls.  Nazareth  itself  was  a  city 
of  four  or  five  thousand  at  the  least,  possibly  of 
many  more  inhabitants. 

Palestine  teemed ;  and  there  was  great  compact- 
ness in  the  apportionment  of  life.  No  recluse  in  the 
wilderness,  but  a  man  always  in  contact  with  men, 
Jesus  had  exceptional  opportunities  to  develop  those 
elements  of  power  which  only  masses  of  humanity 
can  call  forth.  Of  these  opportunities  he  made, 
from  first  to  last,  an  exceptional  use. 

On  this  day  in  the  Month  of  Flowers  —  a  day 
which  proved  to  be  one  of  the  conclusive  crises  of 
his  life  —  he  indulged  his  wish  to  entertain  his 
immense  audience.  He  did  not  often  indulge  him- 
self in  anything.  He  who  had  no  home  of  his  own, 
no  chance  to  enjoy  the  happiness  of  being  host ;  he 
who  would  have  made  so  gracious  and  so  great  a 
host,  so  generous,  so  thoughtful,  so  full  of  fine  care- 
fulness for  the  comfort  of  his  guests,  felt  a  touch- 
ing pleasure  on  this  evening.  Excepting  one  other 
instance,  somewhat  like  it,  the  occasion  stands  alone. 
This  social  entertainment  personally  given  by  Jesus 
was  a  beautiful  scene. 

The  people  in  their  brilliant,  many  colored  cos- 
tumes reclining  on  the  vivid  grass  looked  like  flowers. 


236  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

One  of  the  recorders  of  the  incidents,  with  more 
imagination  than  might  have  been  expected  of  the 
plain  and  severe  historians  to  whom  we  owe  all  that 
we  know  of  Jesus,  spoke  of  the  brilliant  ranks  as 
garden  beds,  or  parterres. 

Jesus  in  his  blue  talith,  on  the  height  above  them, 
looked  down  ;  slightly  flushed  with  happiness,  and 
smiling.  His  white  linen  head-dress  gave  a  certain 
pallor  to  his  complexion,  which  was  more  delicate 
than  that  of  most  of  his  countrymen ;  as  his  features 
were  more  regular:  these  had  something  of  the 
Greek  symmetry  modeled  by  the  Hebrew  force. 
His  countenance  was  both  winning  and  commanding. 
In  hours  of  exaltation,  it  drew  the  heart  up  to  it  by 
a  kind  of  glory  that  awed,  while  it  attracted. 

His  appearance  at  that  moment  was  one  of  great 
beauty.  His  expression  was  that  of  more  than  usual 
peace.  It  was  one  of  the  last  times  when  those  who 
loved  him  saw  him ;  saw  him  free  from  anxiety  or 
pain ;  and  they  remembered  it  as  long  as  they  lived. 

His  men  had  brought  him  their  scanty  provision 
for  supper,  and  he  had  taken  it  into  his  outstretched 
hands.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  sky.  His 
smile  settled  into  gravity  ;  this  slowly  assumed  the 
look  of  prayer.  Soon  it  was  perceived  that  the 
Rabbi  was  asking  the  blessing  of  God  upon  the  even- 
ing meal,  and  the  twelve  bowed  their  heads  with  the 
impulse  of  worship.  Many  in  the  throng  did  the 
same.  Jesus  used  the  Hebrew  form  of  grace  proper 
to  be  spoken  over  a  meal  of  bread.  He  said : 
"  Blessed  art  Thou,  Jehovah  our  God,  King  of  the 
world,  who  causes  to  come  forth  bread  from  the 


FIVE  THOUSAND  GUESTS  237 

earth."  Somewhat  suddenly,  he  gave  the  order  to 
offer  the  food  which  he  had  blessed. 

His  friends,  half  in  consternation,  much  embar- 
rassed, but  trusting  that  it  would  all  come  out  well, 
somehow,  began  to  distribute  five  loaves  of  bread  and 
two  fish,  among  five  thousand  people. 

This  obedience  and  confidence  seemed  ridiculous, 
but  proved  sublime. 

What  was  to  be  said  ?  What  was  to  be  thought  ? 
For  five  thousand  ate,  and  were  satisfied  ;  and  ate 
and  could  eat  no  more.  And  they  left  upon  the 
grass  so  much  food,  beyond  the  power  of  so  many 
hungry  people  to  make  way  with,  that  the  astounded 
committee  of  the  twelve  went  about,  and  picked  up 
many  basketfuls  of  scraps  and  untouched  provisions. 
These  were  cheap  wicker  baskets,  such  as  careful 
people  carried  on  journeys,  and  used  wherefrom  to 
feed  beggars. 

The  wonder  soon  became  understood  among  the 
throng.  It  raised  a  tempest  of  enthusiasm.  The 
people  were  about  dispersing,  but  now  nothing  could 
move  them.  Who  could  leave  a  man  who  could  do 
a  deed  like  that  ?  They  rushed  towards  him.  They 
clambered  up  to  get  nearer  to  him.  Huzzas  arose ; 
cries  of  admiration  rent  the  still  air.  It  was  be- 
ginning to  darken ;  but  no  one  thought  of  home 
or  shelter.  No  one  thought  of  anything  but  the 
tall,  serene  form,  the  gleaming  face,  just  beginning 
to  grow  indistinct  in  the  dusk;  those  outstretched 
hands,  that  presence  of  serenity  and  of  strength  ;  the 
loving  heart,  the  mysterious  gift,  the  mighty  tender- 
ness, with  the  power  to  use  it,  and  the  will  to  use  it, 


238  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

as  no  other  man  had  done.  Everybody  tried  to  get 
nearer  to  him.  Broken  shouts  arose,  defining  into 
words : 

"This  is  He!" 

"  The  Messiah !  The  Wonderful !  The  Anointed ! " 

"  Here  He  is !  Here  is  He  we  have  sought  so 
long !  No  one  else  could  do  such  things !  Our 
own  eyes  have  seen !  It  is  the  King !  " 

Then  from  the  valley,  as  the  shadow  darkened 
and  the  outlines  of  the  crowd  became  clouded  to  his 
eye,  Jesus  heard  the  shout  taken  up  and  carried  on : 

"  The  King !  Let  us  to  him  !  Our  King !  Our 
King!" 

The  groves  echoed  the  cry,  and  it  reverberated 
with  a  curious  sadness  from  rock  to  rock.  The 
lake  seemed  to  receive  it  wistfully,  and  to  repeat  it 
under  breath  of  her  lightest  waves,  as  if  she  felt 
afraid  to  say  it  aloud  for  his  sake,  because  she  loved 
him. 

Jesus  stood  looking  down  ;  —  now  a  dim  form,  a 
dimming  face,  high  above  the  clamor  of  the  people. 
He  seemed  at  one  instant,  in  the  oncoming  night,  to 
blur  and  blend  into  it,  like  a  mystery  which  might 
melt  into  it  and  vanish  forever ;  at  the  next,  to  stand 
there  like  some  grand,  eternal  fact,  carved  out  of 
the  solid  rock,  and  never  to  be  shaken.  He  did  not 
speak. 

For  his  penetration  was  not  deceived.  He  knew 
that  in  this  happy  evening  hour,  while  the  sun 
dipped  and  the  wave  whispered,  and  the  light  on  the 
grass  went  out ;  while  the  people^  shouted,  under- 
standing nothing,  and  loved  him  without  consider- 


FIVE  THOUSAND  GUESTS  239 

ing*  him,  —  he  knew  that  the  turning  of  his  fate  was 
decreed. 

It  has  been  said  of  him  that  he  never  trusted  a 
mob.  The  wisest  of  men  have  been  deluded  by  the 
adulation  of  an  audience.  He  was  not,  even  by 
this  one,  his  kindest,  his  most  pleasing.  He  knew 
that  he  could  not  depend  upon  these  people  to  spare 
him  or  to  save  him ;  that  they  would  huzza  to-day, 
and  forget  to-morrow.  Did  he  understand  that, 
having  helped  him  to  his  doom,  they  would  leave 
him  to  it?  We  like  to  think  that  he  did  not,  alto- 
gether,—  not  quite  yet.  Even  a  few  hours'  respite 
was  something  to  the  tired  man.  But,  while  he 
stood,  drowned  in  his  own  deep  thoughts,  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  people  had  made  headway  against  a 
silence  which  they  took  to  be  that  of  irresolution 
or  assent. 

The  shout  arose  again ;  this  time  with  hot  deter- 
mination : 

"  Jesus,  our  King  !     We  will  make  him  King !  " 

His  quick  divination  perceived  now  the  position 
in  which  he  stood.  Five  thousand  men  were  solidly 
moving  from  the  plain,  up  the  knoll,  massing  upon 
him  from  all  points,  with  the  intention  of  trying 
force  upon  him,  if  flattery  and  entreaty  failed.  By 
a  bold  coup  his  audience,  his  patients,  his  guests,  — 
all  these  people  who  were  in  debt  to  his  sympathy 
and  kindness,  —  meant  to  capture  him  bodily,  and 
drag  him  to  the  front  of  a  great  political  rebellion. 
What  should  begin  as  a  riot  would  end  in  a  revolu- 
tion. An  outburst  of  hero-worship  would  grow  into 
an  uncontrollable  tragedy. 


CHAPTER   XI 
A  DECISIVE  CRISIS 

SOME  hours  had  passed.  The  "first  evening," 
the  "  evening  between  the  evenings,"  and  the  "  sec- 
ond evening  "  were  gone.  It  was  midnight ;  and  he 
was  at  last  alone. 

It  had  been  a  hard  contest ;  but  he  had  conquered 
the  people.  This  was  a  much  more  difficult  thing 
to  do  —  as  his  throbbing  heart  and  exhausted  nerve 
told  him  —  than  it  had  been  for  him  to  feed  five 
thousand  men  on  five  loaves  of  bread.  In  the  esti- 
mate of  his  strange  power  one  must  rank  very  high 
among  mystical  gifts  the  art,  the  force,  the  wit, 
the  will  which  peaceably  dispersed  the  mob  that 
night. 

The  personal  friends  of  Jesus,  swept  into  the  gen- 
eral excitement,  were  almost  carried  off  their  feet. 
They  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  see 
their  Rabbi  with  a  crown  on  his  dear  head.  They 
considered  no  throne  too  good  for  him.  They  would 
have  headed  the  rioters  with  equal  zeal  and  indiscre- 
tion; and  might  have  been  in  a  Roman  dungeon 
before  another  sunset.  Jesus  found  it  as  important 
to  control  them  as  to  dismiss  the  multitude  of  men 
who  had  gone  into  such  a  frenzy  over  the  events  of 
this  exciting  day. 


A  DECISIVE   CRISIS  241 

To  the  dismay  of  the  twelve  they  were  ordered  to 
take  to  their  boat  at  once  and  sail  away,  and  that  with- 
out his  company.  This  was  confounding.  What  a 
disappointment !  Not  to  stay  and  see  what  was  going 
to  happen  ?  To  leave  the  Rabbi  alone  with  the  mob  ? 
To  have  no  share  in  this  tremendous  thing?  To  be 
sent  home  like  children  who  could  not  be  trusted  in 
great  public  affairs  ?  It  was  hard.  But  they  obeyed 
him,  for  the  command  was  given  in  a  certain  tone  of 
his,  not  too  often  used,  but  as  irresistible  as  whirl- 
wind, torrent,  conflagration,  or  any  force  of  nature 
when  it  came.  When  Jesus  spoke  in  this  way,  it  no 
more  occurred  to  his  friends  to  withstand  him  than 
to  defy  Jehovah.  They  went.  Uncomfortable  and 
unhappy,  they  set  sail  without  him,  and  headed  for 
the  western  shore  of  the  lake. 

Jesus  was  now  left  quite  alone  upon  the  plain  of 
Batihah.  He  climbed  to  its  highest  hillock  and 
sank,  for  he  was  worn  out,  upon  the  ground. 

He  recognized  perfectly  that  the  crisis  of  his  life 
had  come.  It  was  all  in  his  own  hands  now, — 
rather  it  was  all  in  his  own  heart.  It  was  his  to 
choose  between  glory  and  shame,  between  success 
and  failure.  Strictly  speaking,  it  was  not  a  choice 
between  life  and  death.  In  either  event,  he  stood 
but  scant  chance  of  life.  An  ordinary  man  would 
have  been  blinded  by  his  position.  A  demagogue 
would  have  suffered  himself  to  be  carried  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  people  into  the  maddest  and  great- 
est of  Hebrew  insurrections.  The  duller  zealot, 
meaning  generously,  but  thinking  imperfectly,  would 
have  rushed  headlong  and  tried  to  retreat  too  late. 


242  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

The  trap  would  shut  down  on  leader  and  on  people 
alike ;  and  it  would  snap  with  a  Roman  lock. 

Jesus  recognized  the  fact  that  he  lived  in  a  time 
of  anarchy  and  under  an  iron  autocracy.  From  five 
million  Jews  Herod  the  Great  had  exacted  three 
millions  of  dollars  a  year,  —  a  heavy  tax  for  the 
average  income.  Desperate  poverty  filled  the  land 
which  it  stirred  to  perpetual  revolt.  The  people 
were  so  poor  that  to  be  on  the  edge  of  starvation 
was  a  very  common  thing.  Among  the  crowd  that 
evening,  no  one  knew  how  many  there  were  who  had 
no  food  with  them  simply  because  they  could  not 
afford  it.  The  sympathy  of  Jesus  with  this  kind  of 
suffering  was  swift  and  steady.  The  first  personal 
petition  in  what  was  known  to  literature  and  to 
worship  as  the  Lord's  Prayer  was:  Give  us  our 
daily  bread.  The  Jews  had  not  the  resources  in 
themselves  or  in  their  conditions  for  a  successful 
revolution  against  the  proudest  power  of  the  world. 

The  political  astuteness  of  the  Rabbi  from  Naza- 
reth has  never  received  anything  like  its  apprecia- 
tion. 

Jesus  had  extraordinary  comprehension  of  affairs. 
In  the  lonely  watch  upon  the  shore  of  Gennesaret 
that  night,  he  measured  the  forces  of  nations  and 
grasped  the  situation  of  the  civilized  world.  His 
own  exalted  enthusiasm,  his  personal  success,  his 
passion  for  humanity,  did  not  confuse  him  for  a 
moment  as  to  the  practical  facts.  He  was  familiar 
with  the  history  of  his  people,  —  of  their  riots,  their 
famous  insurrections,  and  the  fates  of  their  unsuc- 
cessful leaders. 


A  DECISIVE   CRISIS  243 

He  perceived  distinctly  that  in  any  revolution, 
for  any  cause,  under  any  leadership,  subject  Jeru- 
salem would  stand  no  chance  against  omnipotent 
Kome.  There  would  be  an  hour  of  fire  of  glory,  of 
romance,  of  splendid  patriotism,  of  brilliant  resist- 
ance, and  then  the  worst  must  be  expected.  Many 
a  man  has  gladly  given  his  life  to  be  the  chief  figure 
of  such  an  hour,  and  to  go  into  history  as  a  patriot 
defeated  but  magnificent. 

It  is  easy  to  die  a  hero.  How  hard  to  die  a 
victim !  Jesus  had  to  choose  between  the  two.  Lead 
his  people  on  a  hopeless  national  revolt  he  would 
not.  Yet  their  political  expectations  were  the  sole 
basis  on  which  they  were  likely  to  meet  him.  Their 
only  intelligent  idea  of  their  Messiah  was  that  of  a 
powerful  and  obliging  being  who  would  free  them 
from  Rome  and  make  a  nation  of  them.  He,  Jesus 
their  Christ,  just  for  this  hour  their  idol,  he  must 
disappoint  them.  But,  if  he  did  it,  he  must  meet 
the  consequences.  There  lay  his  terrible  dilemma. 

True,  there  was  another  way.  Yes  .  -  .  there 
was  the  other  way.  There  had  always  been  this 
other  method  of  dealing  with  the  great  problem  of 
his  life.  He  had  not  used  it,  —  never  once  to  his 
own  advantage.  It  had  been  to  him  a  holy  treasure 
held  in  trust ;  called  upon  only  under  what  he  be- 
lieved to  be  the  orders  of  God.  Suppose  he  fell 
back  upon  it  now  ? 

There  in  the  midnight  and  the  moonlight,  with 
the  lake  at  his  feet,  in  silence,  in  exhaustion,  in  the 
utter  solitude  of  a  man  who  knows  that  even  if  his 
dearest  friends  were  with  him  they  could  not  under- 


244  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

stand  him,  and  so  feels  less  alone  to  be  without 
them,  he  thought  the  question  through. 

There  was  this  other  way.  Powers  which  other 
souls  knew  not  were  his.  He  had  not  tested  this 
beautiful  and  dangerous  difference  from  his  kind  all 
this  while  to  no  avail.  He  had  not  cultivated  his 
mystical  force  for  over  two  years  without  a  faith  in 
it,  and  a  comprehension  of  it,  that  had  grown  with 
the  force  itself.  Between  his  first  timid  exercise  of 
functions  occult  and  sacred  and  the  great  deeds 
which  he  had  done  in  the  last  six  months  there 
was  a  long  march.  He  had  learned  much  from  the 
education  of  his  own  power.  But  it  is  not  to  be  for- 
gotten that  he  learned  everything  from  its  restraint. 
How  much  more  than  he  had  wrought  had  he  left 
undone !  How  much  more  than  he  had  given  had 
he  held  back !  How  much  more  than  the  wildest 
enthusiasm  of  his  maddest  mob  believed  him  capa- 
ble of  might  he  have  achieved !  How  much  more 
might  he  yet  achieve  ?  .  .  .  Ah,  how  much  ! 

His  thoughts  moved  back  to  the  first  conflict  in 
the  desert  near  Jericho.  Severe  and  decisive  as 
that  had  been,  it  was  the  trial  of  the  theory,  not  of 
the  facts  of  life.  It  is  one  thing  to  forecast  experi- 
ence and  adjust  it  to  principle  in  imagination.  It  is 
quite  another  to  face  the  actual  crisis  which  experi- 
ence has  slowly  and  painfully  brought.  Sore  with 
suffering  yet  throbbing  with  achievement,  the  mind 
comes  up  with  a  shock  in  the  clutch  of  the  situation 
which  it  has  so  long  contemplated  at  a  distance  with 
all  the  ease  of  remoteness  and  much  of  the  sense  of 
unreality.  The  visions  of  the  desert  were  now  the 


A  DECISIVE  CRISIS  245 

struggles  of  the  hour.  Jesus  was  not  free  from  the 
strange  law  by  which  a  soul  is  often  subjected  to  the 
same  kinds  of  trial  all  through  life.  This  terrible 
monotony  in  suffering  he  knew  to  the  piteous  end. 
He  had  now  to  front  his  old  questions,  and  meet 
again  the  ghosts  of  the  spiritual  foes  that  he  had 
laid  at  the  outset  of  his  career. 

Should  he  take  that  other,  that  omitted  way  ? 
Should  he  pursue  his  Father's  plan,  dim,  inscruta- 
ble, so  far  above  his  age  and  his  people  that  it  had 
no  more  coherence  to  them  than  a  delusion  of  the 
demonized  whom  he  healed  ?  Or  should  he  do  the 
thing,  the  only  thing,  from  his  position  comprehen- 
sible to  his  race  and  his  times?  Should  he  levy  his 
mystical  powers  ?  Should  he  summon  invisible  co- 
horts to  his  aid  ?  Should  he  carry  out  the  national 
aspirations,  not  as  a  man  among  men,  but  as  a  God, 
scorning  men  and  their  methods,  —  flinging  aside 
human  restrictions  and  assuming  divine  prerogatives? 
Should  he  confuse,  baffle,  smite,  slay,  triumph,  by 
inexplicable  means?  Should  he  work  out  the  mis- 
sion of  his  life  under  human  laws  or  above  them  ? 

The  Jews  had  the  primitive  idea  of  royalty,  of  its 
purpose  and  its  prerogatives.  Jesus  had  quite  an- 
other. The  words  "  king,"  "  kingdom,"  "  throne," 
meant  one  thing  to  them,  quite  a  different  one  to 
him.  In  his  brief,  intense  public  life,  wherein  the 
energies  and  fervors  of  a  very  long  career  had  been 
crowded  into  a  little  over  three  years,  he  had  never 
been  untrue  to  the  dreams  of  his  first  youth.  His 
exaltation  did  not  desert  him  in  the  stress  of  his 
tremendous  experience  He  had  kept  his  great 


246  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

ideal.  He  had  never  deviated  from  his  unapproach- 
able consecration.  His  belief  remained  unshaken 
that  he  knew  the  purposes  of  God  in  his  life's  his- 
tory, and  that  these  were  not  the  expectations  of 
men.  He  had  been  selected  for  a  fate  as  solitary  as 
it  was  sublime. 

His  was  the  kingdom  of  the  soul.  He  was  the 
King  of  the  spirit.  His  was  the  realm  in  which 
the  little  life  of  nations,  their  wars,  their  revolu- 
tions, their  political  schemes,  their  paltry  clangor, 
could  not  enter.  The  ambitions  of  Augustus  Impe- 
rator  were  petty  beside  the  aspirations  of  Jesus. 
Nothing  less  than  the  permanent  control  of  the 
world  would  ever  realize  these.  But  this  force  must 
come  from  within,  not  from  without. 

His  legions  were  the  elements  of  human  charac- 
ter ;  his  court  was  in  the  human  heart ;  his  throne 
was  humanity  itself.  Of  its  obligations  and  of  its 
possibilities  he  had  a  perfectly  new  conception  to 
enforce. 

This  he  had  tried  to  make  his  practical,  commer- 
cial people  understand.  He  had  preached,  but  they 
were  puzzled  ;  he  had  lived,  but  they  were  perplexed. 
He  had  suffered,  but  they  did  not  comprehend  why 
or  to  what  end.  He  had  hoped  against  evidence 
and  struggled  against  fate.  They  did  not,  could  not, 
would  not  understand. 

Now  !  To  sweep  over  everything  like  flood  or  si- 
moom ;  to  start  and  surge  on  like  any  common  revo- 
lutionist,—  this  the}r  could  comprehend.  The  pa- 
tient, humble  Rabbi,  curing  the  sick,  comforting  the 
unhappy,  helping  the  poor,  was  a  mystery.  What 


A  DECISIVE   CRISIS  247 

should  be  done  with  him  ?  With  it  ?  A  leader  of 
revolts  was  altogether  a  simple  problem.  Add  the 
mystical  element,  to  which  the  Hebrew  mind  was 
quite  accustomed.  That  was  not  half  as  perplexing 
as  a  modest  man  of  power  honoring  the  claims  of 
duty  in  a  plain  way,  using  great  gifts  for  no  clearer 
end  than  to  make  people  well,  pure,  and  happ}7. 

Suppose  he  took  off  the  check  imposed  by  his 
subtle  sense  of  spiritual  honor?  Suppose  he  gave 
his  mysterious  nature  the  rein  ?  Suppose  he  brought 
to  the  situation  but  a  little  portion  of  the  forces,  of 
the  resources,  which  were  his,  and  which  he  now 
knew  were  his  ?  If  he  had  chosen  precisely  here  to 
add  the  extra-natural  touch  to  the  natural  powers  ? 
.  .  .  What  a  dazzling  vision !  What  success ! 
What  glory !  How  much  more  than  the  prospects 
of  a  politician  !  It  was  the  future  of  a  spiritual 
statesman.  Jesus  Christ  was  the  only  man  of  his 
age  who  could  have  hurled  Rome  from  the  throne 
of  the  world.  But  he  could  not  have  done  it  under 
common  laws,  and  that  he  was  meant  to  do  it  under 
the  superhuman  he  did  not  believe.  He  would  not 
touch  it  on  that  basis.  What  then  ? 

The  crisis  was  so  profound,  he  had  been  so  ab- 
sorbed, the  night  was  passing  in  such  emotion  and 
exhaustion,  that  the  solitary  thinker  had  not  noticed 
the  change  of  weather.  Suddenly  a  breeze  fanned 
him  in  the  face  from  the  southerly,  and  he  perceived 
that  it  had  veered  and  was  rising  steadily.  With 
his  quick  consciousness  of  the  situation  of  others,  — 
always  putting  it  before  his  own,  —  he  perceived  in- 


248  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

stantly  that  his  friends  were  sailing  against  a  head 
wind,  and  remembered  that  it  was  by  his  particular 
command  that  they  were  not  ashore. 

He  rose  at  once,  and  stood  looking  off  over  the 
lake,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand  from  the  bril- 
liant Oriental  moonlight.  He  could  see  from  the 
point  where  he  stood  that  the  little  boat  was  having 
a  hard  or  even  a  dangerous  time  with  what  was  now 
a  severe  squall,  if  not  a  gale. 

The  claims  of  his  solemn  night's  vigil  yielded  in- 
stantly to  the  interruption  which  mercy  made  upon 
them.  He  hurried  down  to  the  shore  of  the  lake. 
His  own  trouble  could  wait.  That  of  his  disciples 
could  not  and  should  not. 

Six  miles  by  water,  but  much  more  than  that  by 
land,  the  distance  to  the  western  shore  spread  before 
him.  He  had  no  boat.  On  that  coast,  now  deserted, 
none  was  accessible.  It  was  far  on  in  the  night,  and 
no  help  was  likely  to  reach  the  party ;  they  might 
drown  before  anything  could  be  done  for  them. 

Overcome  with  anxiety  for  his  chosen  friends,  Je- 
sus performed  one  of  the  few  really  impulsive  acts 
of  his  life.  He  stepped  directly  into  the  water.  It 
was  soon  deep,  and  grew  rapidly  deeper.  The  space 
between  him  and  the  struggling  boat  was  far  too 
large  for  the  strongest  swimmer.  The  wind  had 
now  become  a  tempest.  The  waves  ran  high,  and 
both  wind  and  waves  were  against  him.  But  he  did 
not  stop  to  think  of  that.  Exalted,  insistent,  he 
trusted  himself  upon  the  little  sea.  His  heart  was 
so  full  of  distress  for  those  he  loved  that  he  could 
not  think  of  himself.  His  soul  was  so  full  of  trust 


A  DECISIVE   CRISIS  249 

in  God  —  his  high  mood  vibrated  so  in  harmony  with 
the  being  of  his  invisible  Father  —  that  the  laws  of 
nature  seemed  to  him  at  that  moment  like  his  serfs. 
.  .  .  Through  them  or  against  them,  reach  the 
boat !  Defy  the  waves  !  Trample  the  water  !  .  .  . 
Who  can  tell  ?  Had  he  ever  done  the  deed  before  ? 
In  those  long  and  lonely  nights  by  the  lake,  un- 
watched,  unseen,  had  he  ever  experimented  with  his 
mysterious  faculties,  trusting  himself  by  these  alone 
upon  the  waters  ?  Could  he  have  explained  in  this 
way  any  of  his  singular  appearances  or  disappear- 
ances which  his  friends  were  not  always  altogether 
able  to  follow?  Had  he  ever  freed  himself  from 
the  thrall  of  the  land,  from  the  bondage  of  the  keel, 
in  some  weary  and  restless  mood  which  only  the 
freedom  of  the  water  could  calm  ?  Was  the  event 
of  this  night  the  movement  of  an  educated  or  an 
untried  faculty?  Or  was  it  rather  the  overflow 
force  of  that  hour  of  exaltation  when  five  thousand 
men  had  been  nourished  by  his  human  vitality  and 
his  mystical  power  ?  Was  his  soul  still  so  vibrant 
with  the  vigor  of  a  greater  than  human  life  that  the 
extra-natural  was  the  most  natural  thing  for  him 
at  that  moment?  However  that  may  be,  the  mo- 
ment bore  him  on.  Ecstatic,  he  trod  the  water  as 
men  do  in  dreams,  while  living,  or  fancy  that  they 
may  do  waking,  after  death.  All  lovers  of  the  sea 
will  understand  something  of  this  instinct,  which' 
lies  like  a  sleeping  faculty  within  them.  Moving 
swiftly,  moving  joyously,  tall  in  the  moonlight,  pale 
and  solemn,  he  had  the  look,  he  seemed  to  have  the 
qualities,  of  an  apparition. 


250  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Such  the  occupants  of  the  little  boat  took  him  to 
be  when  he  glided  into  their  range  of  vision.  He 
approached  them  rapidly.  His  hands  were  out- 
stretched as  if  to  gather  them.  His  face  melted 
with  shining  pity.  The  boat  lay  over  upon  her  side ; 
she  was  capsizing  fast.  But  the  fishermen  cried  out 
in  superstitious  terror.  With  the  impulse  of  their 
class,  in  all  ages  and  all  lands  the  same,  they  were 
more  afraid  of  the  supernatural  than  they  were  of 
drowning. 

"  A  spirit !  See !  That  is  a  spirit !  "  Then  they 
saw  the  apparition  smiling,  just  as  the  Rabbi  smiled 
any  day  on  land,  —  the  sweet,  familiar  smile  which 
had  become  the  sun  of  their  days  and  the  moon  of 
their  nights,  the  romance  of  their  prosaic  lives. 

"  Have  courage.  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  said,  "  it 
is  I." 

But  the  fishermen  huddled  together  upon  the  wind- 
ward rail  of  the  sinking  boat.  Thomas  shook  his 
head  skeptically.  James  and  Andrew  whispered  to- 
gether. John  held  out  his  hands  towards  the  vision 
of  his  Master  longingly.  But  John  was  gentle,  and 
waited  for  others  to  act. 

The  group  clung  to  each  other  like  frightened  ani- 
mals. Jesus  stood  quite  still.  The  water  was  pour- 
ing and  dashing  about  the  unseaworthy  boat. 

Then  up  spoke  he  who  was  always  the  first  to 
gather  courage,  and  the  surest  to  express  it  for  the 
rest  of  the  twelve.  Peter  —  never  timid,  seldom  si- 
lent —  flung  out  these  impulsive  words :  "  Lord,  if  it 
be  thou,  order  me,  too,  to  walk  upon  the  water !  I 
would  come  to  thee  !  " 


A  DECISIVE   CRISIS  251 

This  challenge  was  quite  satisfactory  to  the  fish- 
ermen. It  was  their  form  of  psychical  research.  It 
was  a  perfectly  reasonable  test,  to  their  minds,  of 
the  nature  of  the  phenomenon.  An  apparition  might 
walk  on  Gennesaret  for  aught  that  one  knew  to  the 
contrary ;  but  plainly,  to  enable  a  fisherman  to  do  so 
was  out  of  the  province  of  spirits.  But  if  it  were 
their  Rabbi,  their  own  Rabbi !  — 

Smiling,  half  amused,  half  tender,  the  figure  beck- 
oned. At  the  gesture  Peter  sprang  promptly  into 
the  foam.  .  .  .  Why,  he  could  tread  the  sea,  —  he, 
too!  Greatly  excited,  he  took  a  few  steps.  The 
surface  of  the  water  bore,  or  seemed  to  upbear,  him. 
Then  the  brave  man  suddenly  lost  his  head. 

The  waves  were  running  furiously.  The  Rabbi 
looked  a  long  way  off.  It  proved  to  be  no  easier  to 
walk  on  the  lake  than  it  had  always  been.  Peter 
became  so  confused  that  he  began  to  go  under.  At 
the  chill  of  the  water  and  its  rush  into  ears  and  throat, 
his  jet  of  courage  and  trust  went  out  like  a  candle 
dipped  in  a  wave.  From  sheer  nervous  collapse,  the 
sturdy  man  of  the  oar  and  the  sail  was  about  to  drown 
in  earnest. 

Then  he  felt  his  hand  grasped.  What  a  vital, 
powerful  touch !  No  other  hand  on  earth  could  hold 
the  sinking  so. 

"  My  Rabbi !  "  cried  the  panic-smitten  man,  — 
"  my  Lord  !  " 

As  if  she,  too,  recognized  her  master,  the  boat 
began  to  right  herself. 

Jesus  stepped  aboard  in  perfect  silence.  The 
fringe  and  hem  of  his  talith  and  tunic  were  wet ;  but 


252  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

his  garments  were  otherwise  dry,  or  only  dampened 
by  spray.  He  looked  mildly  at  Peter,  who  fell 
dripping  and  gasping  at  his  feet. 

Awestruck,  the  fishermen  dropped  upon  their 
knees,  their  faces,  beside  their  bolder  mate.  Whis- 
pers, inarticulate  at  first,  then  growing  stronger  and 
quite  distinct,  passed  from  lip  to  lip. 

"  Thou  art  the  Son  of  God  !  " 

Jesus  smiled  remotely,  solemnly.  He  did  not 
reply.  He  sat  down  among  the  demoralized  sailors, 
and  by  a  mute  gesture  ordered  the  boat  to  put  about 
for  the  shore. 

The  events  of  this  evening  had  been  so  disturbing, 
or  so  unexpected,  that  Jesus,  in  face  of  them,  found 
his  plans  more  or  less  disarranged.  Besides,  the 
Sabbath,  on  which  no  Jew  could  travel,  was  close  at 
hand.  It  was  now,  we  may  think,  the  night  of 
Thursday  to  Friday.  The  boat  made  a  difficult 
landing,  not  precisely  in  Bethsaida,  —  which  was 
then  the  fishing-port  or  Fisherton  of  Capernaum,  but 
to  the  north  of  the  Plain  of  Gennesaret,  —  and  in 
the  light  of  a  Friday  morning,  calm  enough  after  the 
storm,  the  little  party  landed  near  home  in  consider- 
able perplexity. 

The  keel  had  scarcely  grated  on  the  sand  before 
it  was  perceived  that  a  large  concourse  was  collecting 
to  meet  the  tired  Rabbi,  who,  wherever  he  went  and 
whatever  he  did,  could  not  escape  his  inevitable 
crowd. 

The  throng  on  the  northeastern  shore  of  the  lake, 
the  evening  before,  had  dispersed  in  utter  perplexity 
and  some  resentment.  Thousands  of  men,  who  were 


A  DECISIVE  CRISIS  253 

ready  to  drag  him  into  the  front  of  a  revolution,  had 
scattered,  en  route  for  the  Passover,  disappointed 
and  bitter.  They  wanted  110  more  of  a  Messiah  who 
refused  his  proper  position  at  the  head  of  the  Jewish 
nation.  The  popular  idol  must  realize  the  popular 
dreams.  When  the  Anointed  came,  ease  and  idleness 
would  come  with  him.  Fruit  would  ripen  every  week. 
Grain  would  harvest  once  a  fortnight.  The  neces- 
sities of  life  would  fall  into  a  man's  hands  without 
working  for  them.  Comfort  and  luxury  would  run 
attendance  on  every  whim.  Miracles  would  multiply 
for  the  asking.  Every  day  some  wonderful  thing 
would  happen  to  amuse  one.  Life  would  become 
a  brilliant  play,  in  which  the  spectator  sat  to  be 
entertained.  First  and  finally,  Israel  would  be  a 
nation  again,  and  Rome  would  fall  before  her.  Who 
knew  but  the  Hebrew  Messiah  might  sit  on  the  throne 
of  Augustus  ? 

With  this  Rabbi,  who  would  not  be  what  was 
expected  of  him,  the  majority  of  the  mob  had  done. 
They  scattered  about  their  own  affairs  in  a  very  ill- 
humor.  But  the  Rabbi  had  his  friends  left,  and 
some  of  them  followed  him  to  Capernaum  as  fast  as 
possible.  The  severe  gale  of  the  night,  however,  had 
blown  a  certain  portion  of  the  Gennesaret  fishing 
fleet  over  towards  Bethsaida  Julias.  When  morning 
came,  where  was  the  Nazarene  ?  He  was  known  not 
to  have  sailed  in  his  own  boat,  which  was  seen  to  set 
off  without  him.  It  was  sure  that  he  had  not  gone 
by  land,  for  he  would  have  been  met  or  overtaken. 

A  story,  vague,  amazing,  began  to  take  form. 
In  what  manner  had  Jesus  traveled  from  Batihali 


254  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

to  Capernaum  ?  People  whispered  and  wondered  ; 
curiosity  grew.  The  most  incredulous  or  the  most 
credulous,  those  most  eager  to  see  him  for  his  own 
sake  or  for  theirs,  took  passage  on  the  storm-driven 
fishing-boats,  whose  presence  in  the  vicinity  was  a 
convenient  accident,  and  came  across  the  lake  in 
search  of  him.  Take  it  altogether,  he  was  received 
by  a  large  and  excited  multitude  of  people.  He 
began  immediately,  in  his  characteristically  quiet 
manner,  to  attend  to  the  sick,  as  was  always  his  first 
impulse.  He  went  about  his  usual  work  precisely  as 
if  nothing  out  of  the  common  course  had  happened, 
healing,  teaching,  and  preaching,  as  he  saw  the 
opportunity.  He  had  a  wonderful  respect  for  daily 
duty,  for  the  ordinary  demands  of  life ;  with  which 
he  never  suffered  the  extraordinary  event  to  interfere. 
But  the  movement  of  the  extraordinary  had  now  set 
in  upon  his  history.  He  was  not  to  be  able  much 
longer  to  ignore  it. 

It  began  that  Friday  by  an  ecclesiastical  persecu- 
tion, of  small  proportions,  but  of  wily  and  ominous 
intent.  A  certain  delegation  of  Pharisees  and  of 
Scribes,  who  had  come  up  from  the  capital  with  the 
purpose  of  entrapping  the  great  nonconformer, 
attacked  him  almost  as  soon  as  he  appeared  in  the 
vicinity  of  his  home,  by  an  accusation  of  heresy.  It 
took  a  form  grave  to  the  creed  of  these  pompous 
sectarians,  but  nothing  less  than  ridiculous  to  a 
modern  mind. 

The  Nazarene  had  allowed  his  followers  to  eat 
without  previously  washing  the  hands,  according  to 
the  full  Pharisaic  ceremonial.  Terrible  omission! 


A  DECISIVE   CRISIS  255 

Fatal  fault !  Fists  were  clenched.  Phylacteries  and 
fringes  shook  in  the  bitter  anger  of  religious  intol- 
erance. Rumors  of  the  strange  scene  on  the  plain 
at  Batihah  had  spread  like  fire  among  dry  leaves. 
Jesus  had  fed  five  thousand  homeless,  hungry  people 
crowding  a  desolate  place,  without  keeping  them 
waiting  while  he  insisted  on  the  petty  lavations  of  a 
sect.  He  had  put  hospitality,  humanity,  and  good 
sense  before  dogmatism  and  formalism.  The  dele- 
gation arraigned  him  openly  for  impiety. 

The  Nazarene  stood  silent  for  some  moments  after 
this  public  onslaught.  He  was  weary  from  the  events 
of  the  day  before.  He  was  spent  from  the  sleepless 
night,  from  the  solitary  struggle  upon  the  hills,  and 
from  the  deed  that  he  had  done  in  the  tempest. 
Who  measured  the  strain  upon  the  mortal  frame 
given  by  his  powerful  conquest  of  the  forces  of  nature, 
by  that  act  of  mercy  and  of  mystery  ?  His  dearest 
friend  did  not  know  that  Jesus  had  come  to  the  crisis 
of  his  mature  life,  and  that  he  knew  he  had  come  to 
it.  A  man  conscious  that  the  grandest  success  in 
the  history  of  human  power  was  in  his  grasp,  but 
deliberately  electing  the  cruelest  of  defeats ;  a  man 
aware  of  near  martyrdom,  but,  for  the  sake  of  a 
principle  too  noble  to  be  understood  by  other  men, 
refusing  to  evade  danger  by  a  footstep ;  a  man 
passionately  craving  love,  sympathy,  and  loyalty,  but 
conscious  that  he  was  about  to  estrange  them  all ;  a 
man  not  baffled,  but  still  master  of  the  situation,  — 
he  challenged  his  church  and  his  state. 

His  delicate  lip  curled  slightly  with  a  scorn  so 
obvious  that  his  silence  seemed  surcharged  with  it. 


256  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Then,  unexpectedly,  he  roused  himself  and  faced  the 
heresy-hunters. 

Without  a  thought  of  himself,  he  turned  arraigner. 
Without  a  care  for  the  consequences,  he  hurled  at 
the  delegation  from  Jerusalem  a  series  of  the  great 
rebukes  for  which  this  gentle,  this  compassionate 
man  has  become  famous. 

"  You  teach  the  commandments  of  men,  not  the 
commandments  of  God !  You  wash  cups  and  pots 
and  tables.  .  .  .  Yet  you  dishonor  father  and  mo- 
ther. .  .  .  You  are  hypocrites !  " 

"Rabbi,  knewest  thou  how  much  the  Pharisees 
were  offended?"  The  most  timid  of  the  disciples 
came  trembling  to  him  afterwards  and  anxiously  put 
the  question. 

"They  are  blind  leaders  of  blind  men,"  replied 
the  Nazarene  calmly.  "Both  shall  fall  into  the 
ditch." 

But  his  thoughts  were  not  as  calm  as  his  voice  or 
countenance.  He  preached  in  the  Capernaum  syna- 
gogue on  the  Sabbath  ;  a  powerful  discourse,  abso- 
lutely without  evidence  of  fear  or  faltering.  He 
preached  upon  the  topic  which  was  in  everybody's 
mouth,  the  supper  of  the  five  thousand.  He  avoided 
no  question  and  parried  no  complaint  of  that  great 
event.  He  was  as  straightforward  as  if  he  had  been 
the  safest  priest  or  courtier,  protected  by  the  favor 
of  the  authorities  of  the  land,  instead  of  the  suspect, 
homeless  and  hunted,  that  he  was.  He  shot  out  the 
truth,  and  disdained  the  results.  He  startled  his 
audience.  He  made  astounding  assertions  : 


A   DECISIVE  CRISIS  257 

"  This  is  the  work  of  God,"  he  said.  "  I  am  the 
bread  of  life.  .  .  .  He  that  cometh  to  me  shall 
never  be  hungry.  I  came  from  Heaven,  not  to  do 
mine  own  will.  I  came  to  do  the  will  of  Him  who 
sent  me.  .  .  .  He  that  believeth  on  me  hath  ever- 
lasting life.  .  .  .  The  living  Father  sent  me.  .  .  . 
The  words  that  I  speak  are  spirit  and  are  life." 

So  he  spoke,  commandingly  and  courageously. 
But  his  heart  was  heavy ;  so  many  abandoned  him 
suddenly  that  he  felt  like  a  man  shunned.  Perhaps 
he  had  not  expected  this  trouble  to  come  so  quickly, 
so  sorely.  He  was  so  loving  a  man,  he  depended  so 
much  on  human  tenderness,  as  all  highly  organized 
souls  do,  that  coldness  and  desertion  almost  broke 
his  heart. 

One  day  he  turned  pitifully  to  his  chosen,  the 
twelve,  who  clung  to  him  while  others  left  him. 

"  Will  ye  also  go  away  ?  "  he  asked  with  pathetic 
wistfulness.  Tears  started  to  his  sad  eyes.  His 
delicate  face  pleaded  with  the  fishermen,  his  rough 
friends,  as  if  he  cried  out  to  them  for  something  that 
he  must  have.  To  their  dying  hour  these  men 
remembered  that  moment,  and  the  time  came  when 
they  thanked  God  that  Peter  had  answered  for  them 
all: 

"  Master,  to  whom  shall  we  go  ?  The  words  of 
eternal  life  thou  hast." 

But  the  public  agitation  was  now  so  great  that 
Jesus  found  it  necessary  to  escape  it  for  a  time. 
He  resumed  at  once  his  interrupted  plans  of  travel, 
aud  went  with  the  twelve  towards  Tyre  and  Sidon  ; 
a  calmer  region,  where  temporary  safety  allowed  him 


258  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

to  continue  the  work  which  was  more  important  to 
him  than  his  own  fate. 

But  there  were  indications  of  a  certain  change  in 
him  which  his  followers  observed.  He  had  lost 
something  of  his  cheerfulness  and  ease  of  manner. 
He  grew  more  grave,  more  sad.  He  was  much 
alone.  He  was  often  absorbed.  He  sat  sunken  in 
thought.  He  knew  many  sleepless  nights.  He 
spent  his  vigils  in  prayer.  He  seemed  somehow 
removed  from  his  friends  by  a  consciousness  of 
trouble  untold.  At  times  he  looked  at  them  long- 
ingly, lovingly,  as  if  he  would  have  said  something 
which  yet  he  never  said.  He  turned  away  in  silence 
which  they  did  not  dare  to  break.  His  lips  parted, 
trembled,  and  closed.  What  sorrowful  secret  did  he 
withhold  from  them  ? 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  MOUNTAIN:  AND  THE  TOMB 

THE  time  came  soon  enough  when  he  told  them ; 
concealing  nothing,  revealing  all  that  they  could 
understand  and  more.  But  he  bore  his  dark  secret 
for  a  while  yet,  in  the  loneliness  which  he  had  en- 
dured so  long  that  every  nerve  now  began  to  writhe 
away  from  it,  and  his  heart  to  cry  for  a  little  human 
comprehension.  No  man  is  so  sensitive  to  sympa- 
thy as  he  who  has  lived  the  longest  and  the  most 
strongly  without  it.  The  time  comes  when  he  must 
have  it,  or  sink ;  the  very  force  of  character  which 
has  enabled  him  to  dispense  with  it  turns  again  and 
rends  an  exquisite  organization  by  force  of  tender- 
ness. The  very  depth  of  nature,  which  has  been 
lord  of  the  emergency,  now  becomes  its  subject. 
Jesus  was  approaching  such  a  mental  crisis. 

He  was  now  an  unpopular  wanderer,  homeless, 
and  in  peril.  The  malice  of  the  church  which  had 
already  excommunicated  him  was  backed  by  the 
power  of  the  state  which  hated  and  feared  him.  As 
long  as  the  mass  of  the  people  supported  him,  nei- 
ther palace  nor  Sanhedrin  dared  resort  to  extreme 
measures.  But  the  people  had  begun  to  desert  him. 
He  had  known  their  delusive  attachment.  He  was 
to  know  their  caprice  and  their  cruelty. 


260  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

The  last  six  months  of  his  life  in  Galilee  he  spent 
as  a  hunted  man,  practically  an  outlaw  from  the 
more  dangerous  centres  of  population ;  pursuing 
his  missionary  labors  as  well  as  he  could  against 
odds  in  remote  places.  Some  of  the  most  interest- 
ing work  of  his  life  was  done  in  this  despairing 
time.  He  treated  the  deaf,  the  dumb,  the  blind, 
the  leper,  the  maniac,  —  Jews  or  Gentiles,  it  mat- 
tered nothing  to  him,  —  every  anguish  that  needed 
him  fed  upon  him.  Dramatic  cures  and  eloquent 
discourses,  bountiful  mercy  and  beautiful  thought, 
crowded  his  days.  He  seemed  to  press  them  with 
kindness,  with  pity  to  all  the  world.  He  gave  him- 
self passionately,  utterly,  to  suffering  soul  or  suffer- 
ing body.  He  lived  as  great  spirits  do  who  know 
that  their  time  is  short.  But  the  greatest  goes 
dumb  before  this  record  of  spiritual  royalty. 

Yet  was  he  so  watched  and  suspected  that  he  was 
obliged  to  conceal  even  his  kindnesses,  if  he  could. 
He  made  many  unsuccessful  attempts  to  keep  his 
greatest  cures  as  secrets,  but  the  nervous  excitement 
of  his  healed  patients  prevented  this. 

It  was  one  of  the  special  hardships  of  his  life 
that  its  noblest  objects  created  its  gravest  dangers. 
The  necessity  to  be  silent,  to  repress,  was  always 
upon  him.  It  took  difficult  forms.  A  man  living 
to  a  certain  great  end,  yet  was  he  forced  continually 
to  withhold  its  furtherance.  About  to  die  for  a 
supreme  truth,  yet  he  was  often  obliged  to  check  its 
expression. 

One  day  at  Caesarea  Philippi,  a  significant  con- 
versation took  place  between  himself  and  his  twelve 
friends. 


THE  MOUNTAIN:   AND   THE  TOMB         261 

"  Whom,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "  do  men  say  that 
lam?" 

"  John  the  Baptist,  or  Elijah  —  Jeremiah,  or  some 
other  prophet,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  But  whom  do  ye  say  ?  "  persisted  the  Nazarene. 

Then  Peter  uttered  these  memorable  words : 
"Thou  art  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  the  living  God." 

"  Blessed  art  thou !  "  murmured  the  Rabbi,  much 
moved.  "Thou  art  a  rock.  I  build  my  church 
upon  thee ! " 

His  face  blazed  with  a  beautiful  happiness,  which 
those  who  loved  him  saw  but  seldom  now.  But  this 
momentary  glow  died  quickly  down  into  the  dull 
remembrance  of  his  true  position. 

"  See  to  it,"  he  said  sadly.  "  TeU  no  man  that  I 
am  Jesus  the  Christ." 

Up  to  this  time  there  had  been  but  few  occasions 
in  his  life  on  which  he  definitely  admitted  his  own 
celestial  claims.  After  this  time  he  did  not  attempt 
to  evade  them.  They  had  now  grown  quite  clear  to 
his  mind.  It  cannot  be  said  that  they  never  clouded 
over.  It  cannot  be  said  that  he  had  passed  all  ques- 
tion, all  doubt,  all  the  subtle  suffering  which  the 
mere  consciousness  of  his  own  mission  and  nature 
brought  upon  him.  But  he  had  met  the  sun.  Be- 
hind the  darkest  hour  he  knew  that  he  had  seen 
it  shine.  He  lived  a  life  of  intense  determination 
to  believe  in  the  Fatherhood  of  God  at  all  odds,  at 
any  cost.  His  trust  in  his  mysterious  relationship 
to  the  Deity  was  racked  to  the  limits  of  human 
endurance. 


262  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

One  day  the  dispirited  twelve,  themselves  tired 
of  trouble  and  danger,  were  gathered  round  him 
like  homesick  children.  Something  in  their  affec^ 
tionate  trustfulness  touched  him  to  the  quick. 
They,  too,  like  the  rest  of  their  race,  had  expected 
a  political  Messiah;  they  had  hoped  to  see  their 
Rabbi  King  of  the  World.  His  failure  to  become 
what  he  might,  and  now  his  evidently  growing  un- 
popularity, troubled  them.  His  declining  fortunes 
sorely  tried  their  faith.  Nothing  tried  their  love. 
Yet  they  were  in  a  hard  position.  He  felt  it  for  them. 

He  had  sat  in  profound  silence  for  some  time, 
entombed  in  thought.  Unexpectedly  raising  his  sad 
eyes,  he  looked  at  his  followers  so  appealingly  that 
he  who  was  dearest  of  them  all  crept  near  to  the 
Rabbi,  and  softly  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm.  The 
eyes  of  John  and  the  voice  of  Peter  asked : 

"  What  wouldst  thou,  Lord  ?  " 

But  Jesus  answered  nothing  at  all.  He  continued 
to  gaze  at  them  so  steadfastly  that  even  Peter  could 
not  talk.  The  little  group  held  their  breath.  A 
sudden  terror,  nameless,  formless,  began  to  clutch 
their  hearts.  The  look  by  which  a  great  love  an- 
swers foreboding  that  it  cannot  relieve  crept  sol- 
emnly upon  his  expression.  They  read  in  his 
broken  face  the  spelling  of  one  awful  word.  His 
lips  could  not,  would  not  frame  it  till  his  pitying 
eyes  had  said  it. 

Death  /  .  .  .  Their  Rabbi,  their  lord,  their  dream 
of  life,  their  vision  of  human  power  and  splendor, 
of  divine  vitality  —  die  ?  The  thing  seemed  so 
incredible  that  its  full  shock  could  not  reach  their 


THE  MOUNTAIN:   AND  THE  TOMB          263 

senses.     But  they  looked  back  into  his   quivering 
face  again,  and  they  saw  that  terrible  truth  was  on  it. 

As  soon  as  he  could  speak,  or  they  could  listen^ 
he  told  them  what  he  knew.  Did  he  tell  them  all 
he  knew  ?  -  It  was  impossible  to  say  this,  or  indeed  to 
say  where  his  prevision  of  his  fate  began  or  ended. 
The  tragic  movement  of  events  taught  these  plain 
men  many  dreadful  lessons.  At  that  moment  they 
were  rent  between  the  feeling  that  he  could  not  be 
doubted  in  anything  that  he  said,  and  the  passionate 
protest  of  belief  against  accepting  enormity  like  this. 
They  repeated  the  words  slowly,  in  broken  sentences, 
with  stiffening  lips. 

"Jerusalem  .  .  .  Condemned  ...  of  the  Priests 
...  To  be  killed  .  .  .  three  days  .  .  .  Kise 
again  "... 

Their  thoughts  grew  rigid  like  their  muscles 
about  these  impossible  ideas. 

Impulsive  Peter  broke  into  a  passion  of  re- 
proaches, finding  fault,  as  hot-headed  persons  do, 
with  the  being  one  loves  most,  because  affliction  has 
smitten  him.  Peter  acted  as  if  the  Rabbi  had  be- 
come morbid,  and  needed  a  healthy  mind  to  check 
him. 

But  John,  whom  Jesus  loved,  crept  closer,  and 
buried  his  face  from  sight  of  all  the  rest  upon  the 
shoulder  of  his  Master.  When  the  dearest  disciple 
heard  this  presentiment  or  prescience  of  doom  con- 
fided to  his  friends  by  Jesus,  John  put  up  his  hand 
entreatingly,  and  laid  his  finger  on  the  white  lips 
which  articulated  the  horrible  words. 


264  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Did  John  understand  more  than  the  others,  or 
better  ?  For  the  disciples  were  not  fine  of  percep- 
tion about  what  Jesus  had  said.  They  found  it 
almost  impossible,  when  they  came  to  think  it  over, 
to  interpret  him  literally.  He  must  mean  this  or 
that ;  must  refer  to  some  unknown  decline  or  in- 
crease of  fortune.  He  was  indulging  in  parable. 
Or,  perhaps,  he  thought  of  the  general  resurrection 
of  the  dead,  whatever  that  should  signify. 

One  day  Jesus  found  these  good  men  wrangling 
as  to  which  of  them  should  hold  the  highest  political 
office  when  he  came  to  the  throne  of  the  Hebrew 
nation.  He  turned  away,  astonished  and  mute. 
After  all,  had  their  minds  gone  no  farther  than 
this  ?  If  they,  with  their  opportunities,  could  not 
understand,  what  should  he  expect  of  the  rest  of  the 
world? 

The  Nazarene  was  now  living  intense  days. 
They  passed  in  spiritual  fervors  which  encroached 
upon  a  wasting,  but  always  revitalized  strength. 
His  preaching  indicated  the  exaltation  under  which 
he  moved.  When  was  he  more  eloquent  ?  His 
language  could  not  be  more  terse.  His  thought,  fed 
by  his  heightened  feeling,  was  seldom,  if  ever,  more 
valuable.  Immortal  quotations  from  his  addresses 
date  from  this  time :  "  Let  a  man  deny  himself  .  .  . 
to  follow  me.  Whosoever  will  save  his  life  shall 
lose  it.  ...  Whosoever  will  lose  it  for  my  sake 
shall  find  it."  What  profit  to  a  man  if  he  gain  the 
world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?  .  .  .  What  shall  he 
give  in  exchange  for  a  soul  ?  " 

A  week  had  gone.     Dedication  had  done  its  work 


THE  MOUNTAIN:   AND  THE  TOMB          265 

upon  his  sensitive  organization.  He  had  grown  pale, 
thin,  shining.  His  eyes  were  larger  than  usual,  and 
their  hollows  had  darkened.  His  veined  hands  had 
shrunken  a  little,  as  the  human  hand  does  with  cer- 
tain temperaments,  giving  the  first  signal  of  bodily 
change  under  suffering  or  sickness.  What  illumined 
his  patient  smile  ?  A  sacred  fire  was  in  his  eye. 
His  disciples  watched  him  in  dull  wonder. 

There  came  a  night  when  he  bade  the  three  on 
whom  he  most  depended  to  climb  the  hills  with  him, 
and  gave  no  reason  beyond  the  familiar  .one,  that 
he  would  ascend  to  pray.  Peter,  James,  and  John 
were  tired  with  the  day's  traveling,  but  no  one  of 
them  objected.  The  Rabbi's  manner  was  something 
not  to  be  argued  with; 

They  were  at  the  foot  of  beautiful  Lebanon,  high- 
est and  whitest  of  .mountains.  It  was  an  Alpine 
ascent,  involving  a  night  speni  in  air  too  rarefied 
for  comfortable  breathing,  if  one  made  the  snow- 
touched  summit.  The  little  party  did  not,  but 
mounted  to  a  nearer  foothill,  and  wondered  why 
this  toil  was  added  to  a  hot  day's  march.  Jesus 
climbed  in  advance,  apart.  His  stout  staff  fell 
firmly  on  the  rocks.  He  showed  less  than  usual 
signs  of  weariness.  Yet  his  friends  knew  how  worn 
he  was. 

The  great  mountain  divided  Jewish  from  Gentile 
territory.  It  was  an  imposing  height,  and  the  view 
therefrom  was  significant  and  inspiring. 

The  sun  had  set.  Cool  was  coming.  The  road 
started  among  cultivated  slopes,  and  wound  upwards 
through  orchards,  vines,  and  grain  fields.  Figs  and 


l>66  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

apricots,  mulberry,  corn,  and  melon  interchanged 
outlines  and  colors  of  leaf  or  blossom  or  forming 
fruit.  The  air  was  sweet.  The  world  was  ripen- 
ing. Clumps  of  oak  succeeded  to  this  richer  level ; 
dwarf  shrubs  and  rock  ravines  thickened  as  the 
climb  grew  steeper.  Turf,  gravel,  stunted  cedars, 
gorges  and  crevices,  began  to  take  the  place  of 
warmer  scenery.  Warm  became  cool,  delightful  to 
the  sun -smitten  travelers ;  and  now  from  above  them 
the  scent  of  snow  !  The  group  drew  it  in  to  thirsty 
senses  and  to  weary  frames.  Strength  came,  as  it 
always  comes  with  snow.  They  felt  invigorated  and 
excited.  The  hot,  dusty  world  lay  below  them,  as 
life  lies  below  death,  —  a  trouble  escaped.  Their 
spirits  rose,  and  so  their  souls. 

To  the  dull  watchers  down  in  the  plain  and  valley, 
stately  Lebanon  gave  no  sign  that  mystery  swept 
over  his  head  that  night.  Life  went  on  as  usual  to 
common  minds  and  in  common  circumstances.  Who 
guessed  that  a  wonder  thrilled  the  mountain  ?  The 
lowland  and  the  heights  are  far  apart.  Lebanon 
was  always  a  beautiful  summit,  and  the  eyes  of  the 
sad  or  the  sick  turned  to  it  on  this  as  on  many  other 
evenings. 

Sunset  on  this  peak  has  been  captured  by  the 
vivid  pen  of  one  who  knew  it  well. 

"  Close  upon  the  rose  color  deepening  into  red  " 
came  "  a  death-like  pallor,  and  darkness  relieved  by 
snow."  ..."  A  deep  ruby  flush  was  slowly  fol- 
lowed by  warm  purple  shadows."  The  Sea  of  Gali- 
lee, "  between  its  dim  walls  of  hill,"  was  lighted 
with  "  a  delicate,  greenish-yellow  hue.  The  flush 


THE  MOUNTAIN:  AND  THE  TOMB    267 

died  out  .  .  .  and  a  pale,  steel-colored  shade  suc- 
ceeded. ...  A  long,  pyramidal  shadow  slid  down 
.  .  .  and  crept  across  the  plain.  Damascus  was 
swallowed  up  by  it  ...  the  pointed  end  of  the 
shadow  stood  out  distinctly  against  the  sky  —  a 
dusky  cone  of  dull  color  against  the  flush  of  the 
afterglow.  It  was  the  shadow  of  the  mountain  it- 
self, stretching  away  for  seventy  miles  across  the 
plain  —  the  most  marvelous  shadow,  perhaps,  to  be 
seen  anywhere.  .  .  .  The  sun  at  length  slid  into  the 
sea,  and  went  out  like  a  blue  spark." 

In  the  color,  in  the  glory,  remote  from  men,  apart 
from  the  fret  of  life,  a  group  of  four  passed  from 
twilight  to  dark,  in  the  attitude  and  in  the  absorp- 
tion of  worship.  Jesus  had  prayed  aloud  with  his 
three  friends,  calling  upon  them  —  did  they  ever 
reveal  what  endearing  blessings?  He  had  now 
moved  somewhat  apart  from  them  that  he  might 
have  the  privacy  of  personal  and  silent  prayer. 
They  watched  him  reverently.  But  they  were  very 
tired.  The  Master  prayed  a  long  time  to-night. 
And  if  one  should  fall  asleep,  and  offer  him  that 
disrespect  ? 

The  three,  struggling  against  the  drowsiness  which 
began  to  overcome  them,  suddenly  stirred  and 
started.  They  sprang  to  their  feet.  Every  man  of 
them  forgot  that  he  was  sleepy,  thought  and  cared 
no  longer  for  himself  or  for  his  feelings  or  concerns. 

For,  what  had  happened?  Or  was  happening? 
Was  the  mountain  on  fire  ? 

Who  was  that?  What  was  that?  Where  was 
their  Kabbi,  —  the  plain  man  whom  they  were  used 


'268  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

to  seeing  every  day,  the  unpopular,  hunted  preacher, 
with  his  blue  talith  stained  by  the  climb  up  the 
mountain,  and  his  dear  face  furrowed  with  care? 
He  had  vanished  as  the  shadow  of  Lebanon  had 
vanished  on  the  landscape  when  night  melted  the 
hard  outlines  of  day  away. 

He  was  gone,  that  hunted  missionary,  bowed  with 
responsibilities  and  dangers,  comrade  of  grief.  In 
his  stead,  what  a  vision  !  Behold  beauty,  splendor, 
joyousness,  a  kingly  form  ;  light  on  his  hair,  on  his 
features,  on  his  arms  and  hands.  His  dark  linen 
talith  had  taken  on  the  texture  of  clouds,  and  the 
color  of  white  fire.  His  feet,  an  hour  ago  travel- 
worn  and  dusty,  now  glittering,  refused  to  touch  the 
earth.  He  trod  on  the  mountain  air.  He  floated 
lightly,  —  as  fair,  as  refreshing,  as  refreshed  as  the 
snow  beyond.  His  countenance  was  as  if  it  had 
been  a  medallion,  carved  out  of  living  light. 

A  mist  of  gold  broken  into  rainbow,  brushed  into 
pearl,  surrounded  him.  From  it  looked  dim  outlines, 
half  foreign,  half  familiar,  with  the  Hebrew  linea- 
ments ;  faces  of  ancient  saints  and  sages  cherished 
by  the  Hebrew  imagination  and  faith. 

The  three  simple-hearted  men,  to  whom  the  sight 
of  these  bright  phantasms  was  given,  fell  flat  with 
terror,  which  arose  quickly  into  ecstasy.  Half  in- 
toxicated with  the  presence  of  the  transcendent, 
never  before  granted  to  their  experience,  they  began 
to  babble  like  children  in  happy  delirium,  not  know- 
ing what  they  said. 

But  what  should  be  said  of  him,  the  portrait  in 
that  frame  of  glory  ?  Where  was  the  worn  face  ? 


THE   MOUNTAIN:   AND    THE   TOMB         269 

Where  the  wasted  hands,  the  troubled  figure  ?   Like 
the  dust  of  travel,  escaped  in  a  bath  of  fire. 

Pain  and  wanness  vanished  from  him  like  the 
staff  which  had  helped  him  up  the  mountain,  and  now 
lay  forgotten.  Humanity,  transfigured,  had  mounted 
into  —  what?  This  was  no  more  the  man  they  knew, 
who  shone  ineffable  before  them.  Then  who  ? 

The  fishermen  were  nervously  anxious  to  tell 
everybody  what  had  happened.  This  wonderful 
thing  must  bring  all  Palestine  to  the  Rabbi's  feet. 
Were  they  not  its  elect  witnesses,  good  men  and  true, 
whose  testimony  could  not  be  scorned  ? 

To  their  dismay,  they  were  authoritatively  ordered 
not  to  say  anything  about  it.  Nay,  even  the  remain- 
ing nine  of  the  twelve  were  to  be  told  nothing  at  all. 
Peter,  John,  and  James  were  astounded  to  find  that 
this  splendid  secret  was  theirs,  and  theirs  alone. 
They  did  not  know  whether  to  be  more  honored  or 
more  troubled  by  the  confidence. 

They  descended  the  mountain  silently.  They 
looked  askance  at  Jesus,  wondering  that  he  appeared 
just  as  usual.  They  were  afraid  to  address  him. 
They  whispered  among  themselves  and  glanced  over 
their  shoulders  now  and  then,  like  people  who  had 
seen  sorcery.  They  were  not  imaginative  men,  but 
they  were  loving  ones,  and  they  found  it  natural  to 
connect  the  great  scene  on  the  heights  with  the 
strange  mood  which  now  consumed  the  Rabbi. 

What  store  of  strength  did  he  need  for  the  next 
act  in  the  tragic  drama  whose  scenery  had  now 
begun  to  shift  with  darkening  swiftness  ? 


270  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Had  his  unseen  Father,  in  whom  he  believed  so 
profoundly,  taken  this  desolate  son  to  his  heart  in 
the  splendors  of  a  mystical  hour  ?  Did  it  need  the 
night  on  Lebanon  to  fortify  Jesus  for  the  days  which 
were  to  come  ? 

He  told  no  person.  But  he  came  down  the  moun- 
tain a  changed  and  determined  man.  No  more  un- 
certainty, whether  apparent  or  real,  troubled  his 
purpose  or  controlled  his  movements.  From  that 
hour,  he  turned  without  one  hesitating  motion  to 
meet  his  doom.  It  has  been  said  of  him  in  a  few 
strong  words  which  discourage  a  weaker  version  of 
the  crisis  :  "  From  that  time  he  set  his  face  stead- 
fastly towards  Jerusalem." 

The  history  of  martyrdom  has  its  grandeurs,  its 
follies,  and  its  delusions,  like  that  of  all  other  human 
enthusiasms  ;  and,  in  its  awful  processes,  minor  men 
have  exhibited  great  qualities.  Thousands  of  them 
have  studied,  in  passionate  desire  to  repeat  it,  the 
bearing  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  But  when  has  it  been 
reduplicated  ?  Who  has  trodden  such  a  road  as  he 
with  such  a  step  ?  It  was  so  human,  so  sensitive  ; 
it  winced  so  from  anguish ;  it  indicated  at  every 
blood-drop  suffering  so  acute  that  ordinary  sym- 
pathy has  not  the  nerve  to  follow  it ;  it  was  the 
footfall  of  flesh  on  fire  ;  yet  it  trod  like  metal  on 
stone. 

Bravely  to  accept  the  inevitable  calls  forth  a  kind 
of  self-respect  which  often  honors  human  character, 
and  takes  the  form  of  fortitude  or  courage.  Jesus 
elected  the  avoidable  ;  forced  it,  hastened  it,  and 
faced  it  as  if  he  had  been  king,  not  captive  of  his 


THE  MOUNTAIN  :   AND   THE   TOMB          271 

fate.  He  moulded  his  own  sufferings  with  the  seren- 
ity of  a  sculptor  modeling  the  statue  of  a  god. 

The  Nazarene  now  set  forth  upon  the  itinerary  of 
his  last  journey  through  Palestine,  moving  from  pro- 
vince to  province  as  occasion  dictated,  facing  or  flee- 
ing immediate  danger,  as  the  large  plan  of  his  sacri- 
fice seemed  to  him  to  require.  His  dearest  friend 
never  saw  him  falter.  Relentless,  determined,  — 
seeing  it  all  the  while,  —  he  trod  into  the  trap  which 
church  and  state  had  laid  for  him  in  the  capital. 

Who,  in  the  preconsciousness  of  a  terrible  fate, 
lives  as  if  it  were  not  to  be  ?  Which  of  us,  knowing 
that  he  is  to  die,  can  act  as  if  he  were  to  live  ?  Jesus 
went  straight  on  with  common  life.  Daily  duty  pre- 
sented to  him,  as  it  always  had,  the  foremost  claims. 
He  preached,  he  taught,  he  prayed;  he  healed,  he 
rebuked,  he  forgave,  he  comforted.  He  gave  his 
last  six  months  of  life  to  everything  but  his  own  in- 
terests, to  every  being  except  himself.  His  patients 
thronged  his  path  early  and  late,  as  they  had  always 
done.  Sickness  and  sorrow  accumulated  in  his  way, 
leaning  upon  him  more  heavily  than  ever.  The  woe 
of  the  world  clung  to  him  more  helplessly,  more  per- 
sistently, as  if  it  were  a  sentient  thing,  and  had  a 
dim  foreknowledge  that  its  opportunity  was  short. 

His  own  spiritual  force  responded  visibly  to  the 
calls  upon  it  in  these  intense  months.  He  preached 
with  an  ecstatic  absorption.  His  mental  powers 
grew  at  once  more  profound  and  more  simple.  His 
discourses  at  this  period  were  many,  and  remain 
matchless.  When  has  the  intellect  of  Jesus  Christ 
received  anything  like  its  recognition  ?  We  have 


272  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

been  accustomed  to  think  of  him  so  exclusively  as  a 
great  religious  influence  that  the  supreme  quality 
of  his  mind  has  escaped  us. 

Very  many  of  his  immortal  thoughts,  dating  from 
this  crisis,  were  apparently  and  deliberately  thrown 
away  in  private  instruction.  His  acquired  lack  of 
confidence  in  mobs  gave  him  reserved  opinions  about 
the  uses  of  public  address.  He  began  to  question  its 
permanent  value.  He  became  deeply  conscious  that 
he  must  now  seek  permanence  rather  than  immediate 
effect  for  the  truth  which  was  about  to  cost  him  his 
life.  He  began  to  trust  his  thought  more  and  more 
to  his  personal  friends. 

Type  and  the  press  did  not  exist.  He  had  none 
of  the  conditions  of  the  modern  reformer. 

Yet  the  Nazarene  forecast  the  methods  of  influ- 
ence which  would  be  in  power  centuries  afterwards. 
The  most  eminent  orator  of  history,  he  preferred  the 
medium  of  a  few  intelligent  and  controlling  minds. 
He  confided  his  system  of  faith  to  twelve  unlettered 
men.  Did  he  know  that  these  would  become  the 
editors  and  authors  of  the  greatest  publication  in 
the  world  ? 

There  was  a  suburb  of  Jerusalem  which  he  came 
to  love  and  to  seek,  a  convenient  and  pleasant  retreat 
(scarcely  two  miles  away)  for  a  traveler  wearied  of 
the  town,  or  for  personal  reasons  unsafe  within  it. 
In  the  course  of  a  few  brief  visits  to  the  capital,  — 
troubled,  hurried  stays  that  sent  him  forth  from  the 
city  sadder  than  he  came,  —  the  heretic  preacher, 
in  these  last  dark  months,  had  opportunities  to  culti- 
vate his  warm  friendship  for  one  family  resident  in 


THE  MOUNTAIN:   AND  THE   TOMB          273 

Bethany.  This  was  the  preferred  household  of  three 
which  came  nearest  of  any  that  he  had  known  since 
boyhood  to  giving  him  a  sense  of  home. 

No  closer  ties  than  those  between  brother  and 
sister  deviated  the  attachment  of  Lazarus  and  Mary, 
who  were  un wedded,  and  of  Martha,  a  widow,  from 
their  gentle  guest.  The  four  made  a  circle  of  those 
solitaries  whose  shared,  yet  separate  lives,  form  the 
best  material  for  friendship.  A  beautiful  devotion, 
deferent  from  the  hosts,  faithful  on  the  part  of  the 
guest,  grew  into  delicate  intimacy. 

Martha,  proprietor  of  the  home,  a  wealthy  house- 
holder, a  little  fussy  and  arbitrary,  as  good  house- 
keepers are ;  Mary,  the  devotee,  a  little  neglectful 
and  absent-minded,  as  dreamers  are  ;  and  Lazarus, 
the  younger  brother  of  the  family,  made  an  interest- 
ing group.  Their  affection  became  peculiarly  dear 
to  Jesus.  His  wasting  heart  threw  tendrils  around 
them.  Their  open  home  was  precious  to  the  lonely 
man. 

It  is  pleasant  to  think  that,  at  this  troubled  time 
of  his  life,  he  knew  something  of  a  home  of  real  ease. 
He  had  been  so  poor,  so  hunted ;  he  had  so  much  of 
privation,  and  so  little  of  comfort !  The  hospitality 
of  the  poor  and  of  the  middle  classes,  spasmodically 
offered,  gratefully  accepted,  had  been  his  usual  lot. 
He  had  met  it  cheerfully  ;  but  his  sense  of  homeless- 
ness  was  pitifully  acute. 

He  once  wistfully  compared  his  condition  to  that 
of  the  wild  creatures  of  the  forests  and  the  skies. 
The  foxes  and  the  birds  had  their  holes  and  their 
nests.  The  Son  of  Man,  he  said,  had  not  where  to 


274  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

lay  his  head.  These  plaintive  words  constitute  one 
of  the  rare  complaints  of  his  hard  life. 

His  experience  since  the  evening  on  the  mountain 
had  been  more  than  at  some  other  times  a  desolate 
one.  At  the  very  outset  of  his  first  journey  to  Jeru- 
salem (traveling  by  way  of  Samaria),  he  had  been 
refused  outright  admission  to  a  village  where,  being 
tired  out,  he  had  arranged  to  spend  the  night.  This 
breach  of  the  commonest  laws  of  Oriental  hospitality 
was  so  incredible  that  the  indignation  of  the  twelve 
knew  no  restraint.  They  demanded,  in  a  rage,  that 
the  Rabbi  should  smite  the  offending  town  with  the 
wrath  of  heaven,  clearly  believing  that  he  could  do 
it  if  he  would.  Gently  rebuking  them,  the  wearied 
man  patiently  took  his  march  again  and  humbly 
walked  on  to  another  village.  He  showed  no  resent- 
ment. 

Worse  than  this  had  happened  in  Judea.  To  one 
of  his  public  addresses  at  Jerusalem  befell  an  omi- 
nous interruption.  Something,  hurled  by  an  unseen 
hand,  struck  him  violently.  It  proved  to  be  a  stone. 
Smarting  with  the  pain  of  a  severe  blow,  quivering 
with  the  nervous  shock,  the  preacher  paused  and 
steadfastly  regarded  the  crowd.  He  perceived  clear 
signs  of  an  intention  to  mob  him  by  stoning  him  to 
death. 

He  changed  color.  His  fine  lips  parted.  What 
just  denunciation  would  they  roll  forth  ?  What  aw- 
ful retort  ?  Earthquake,  fire,  flood,  sunstroke,  the 
blows  of  the  winds,  or  the  resources  of  sudden  death 
which  lurk  in  the  human  body  —  were  these  at  his 
disposal  ?  Which  would  he  select  from  the  invisi- 


THE  MOUNTAIN:  AND  THE  TOMB         275 

ble  ranks  of  his  mystical  guardsmen  to  protect  him- 
self ?  to  punish  his  assailant  ? 

He  chose  the  sting  of  a  gentle  word.  "  Many 
kindnesses  have  I  done  you.  .  .  .  For  which  of  them 
do  ye  stone  me  ?  " 

Heartsick  and  hopesick,  he  had  been  lovingly  re- 
ceived into  Martha's  luxurious  home.  He  had  sat 
with  Mary  under  the  tents  of  green  branches  erected 
in  the  court,  or  near  the  house,  on  Festival  Week, 
and  rested  in  the  flickering  of  cool  shadows,  talking 
quietly  of  the  great  thoughts  with  which  his  mind  was 
throbbing,  while  the  mistress  of  the  house  bustled 
to  and  fro  ordering  his  upper  room,  or  preparing 
for  many  guests.  Of  these  he  was  the  most  distin- 
guished. He  was  treated  accordingly.  The  social 
position  of  Lazarus  and  the  ladies  of  the  family  was 
so  prominent  that  their  unconcealed  devotion  to  the 
Nazarene  made  them  no  special  trouble  in  ecclesi- 
astical quarters  ;  they  were,  for  whatever  reason, 
let  alone  in  their  heresy.  At  all  events,  they  never 
wavered  from  it.  They  became  and  remained  his 
fast  and  affectionate  friends.  Every  comfort  that 
wealth  and  love  could  command  their  hospitality 
crowded  upon  him.  The  worn-out  man,  accustomed 
to  a  rude  and  simple  lot,  gratefully  drew  one  long, 
sighing  breath  in  the  soft  air  of  gentle  surroundings. 
His  exquisite  delicacy  of  nature  rested  in  it,  like  a 
bruised  nerve,  long  lacerated  and  neglected.  Far 
beyond  common  woe  or  want  as  his  personal  emer- 
gency had  gone,  all  human  distinctions  looked 
smaller  than  ever  to  him  ;  and  he  had  never  rated 


276  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

them  as  of  much  consequence.  But  the  educated 
sympathy  of  refinement  he  did  not,  for  he  could  not, 
undervalue.  He  needed  it  too  much  just  then.  It 
came  at  the  right  time.  Friendship,  at  its  best  and 
sanest,  he  tasted  with  a  touching  gratitude  ;  the  ripe 
and  beautiful  fruit  he  laid  gently  down  when  the 
hour  came  ;  no  one  heard  him  complain  because  he 
must  relinquish  it. 

It  was  in  Perea,  and  the  travelers  were  moving 
with  caution.  He  had  found  himself  in  such  immi- 
nent peril  in  Judea  that  he  had  kept  out  of  the  pro- 
vince for  a  time,  teaching,  healing,  and  preaching 
as  usual  wherever  he  went.  He  was  about  a  day's 
journey  from  Bethany.  A  sudden  message  reached 
him  from  his  friends  there  : 

"  He  whom  thou  lovest  is  sick.  Lord,  hasten  to 
him!" 

But  Jesus  did  not  hasten  to  Lazarus.  The  inex- 
plicable mood  which  he  had  more  than  once  shown 
in  emergencies  took  possession  of  him.  With  ap- 
parent disregard  of  the  appeal,  he  went  on  about  his 
work  where  and  as  he  was.  Two  days  passed. 
Strange  silence  came  upon  him.  He  would  not  talk 
about  the  thing. 

Two  days  !  A  man  might  die  and  be  buried  in 
the  East  in  that  time.  And  this  his  chosen  friend, 
of  whose  lavish  hospitality  he  had  freely  partaken  ; 
this  the  household  where,  above  all  others  in  Judea, 
he  loved  and  was  loved !  It  began  to  be  rumored 
that  the  healer  was  afraid  to  go  to  Bethany ;  that 
he  would  let  his  friend  die,  —  like  any  timid,  com- 


THE  MOUNTAIN:   AND   THE  TOMB         277 

mon  man,  —  rather  than  risk  his  life  so  near  Jerusa- 
lem. His  disciples  interrogated  him  persistently. 
But  the  most  that  they  gained  was  this  enigmatic 
explanation  of  his  conduct :  "  It  is  that  you  might 
believe." 

The  sick  man  was  asleep,  he  said.  "  When  I  go, 
I  will  awaken  him."  Then  the  twelve  remembered 
the  little  maid,  the  child  of  Jairus,  and  how  the 
Rabbi  spoke  about  her,  affirming  that  she  was  not 
dead.  "  If  he  sleep,  he  shall  do  well,"  they  answered 
cheerfully,  for  they  were  much  relieved,  being  anx- 
ious about  their  master's  reputation  in  this  matter. 
But  Jesus  turned  upon  them  one  of  his  long  and 
silent  looks." 

"  I  tell  you  plainly,"  he  said  with  decision,  "  Laz- 
arus is  dead." 

Suddenly,  at  the  end  of  two  days,  he  gave  the 
order  to  start  for  Bethany.  And  now  the  fishermen 
took  fright  themselves.  They  begged  him  for  his 
life's  sake  and  for  theirs  to  keep  away  from  the  re- 
gion of  the  capital.  They  reminded  him  of  the  stone 
which  struck  him  on  that  startling  day.  They  re- 
minded him  that  if  Lazarus  were  dead  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done. 

But  he  looked  at  them  and  strode  on.  His  staff 
scattered  the  dust  far  ahead  of  his  party.  It  was 
almost  impossible  now  to  keep  up  with  him.  His 
unaccountable  indifference  and  delay  had  warmed 
into  what  seemed  an  unreasonable  anxiety  and  hurry. 
The  talith  that  he  wore  that  day  was  white,  and 
his  tall  figure  looked  like  a  pillar  of  light,  as  he 
moved  rapidly  forward,  in  advance  of  his  disciples, 


278  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

who  plodded  after,  rough  and  faithful,  obedient  and 
perplexed,  —  perplexed  as  they  always  were.  They 
spent  their  lives  in  an  intellectual  strain.  A  man's 
faith  is  worth  something  when  it  burns  through  such 
mental  conditions  as  theirs. 

They  overtook  him  before  they  came  to  their 
journey's  end ;  and  the  group  entered  Bethany  to- 
gether. 

The  first  news  which  reached  them  was  as  bad  as 
it  could  be.  It  was,  indeed,  as  the  Rabbi  had  said. 
Lazarus  was  dead.  More  than  that,  he  was  dead 
and  buried. 

Lazarus  was  the  most  prominent  citizen  in  Beth- 
any, and  the  circumstances  of  his  death  were  on 
everybody's  tongue.  The  village  was  astir  with 
mourners.  Neighbors  gossiped  about  the  dead  man's 
tarrying  friend,  —  not  kindly.  Muttered  reproaches, 
displeased  and  distressed  faces,  met  the  healer  every- 
where. Before  he  had  set  foot  within  the  borders 
of  the  village,  he  felt  himself  to  be  the  most  unpop- 
ular man  in  it.  He  looked  a  little  surprised  at  this. 
He  had  grown  more  and  more  restless  during  the  lat- 
ter part  of  the  journey  ;  he  had  eaten  little  and  with 
difficulty ;  he  would  take  no  rest  at  noon,  but  hur- 
ried along ;  his  nervous  system  seemed  to  be  on  an 
unusual  tension;  his  expression  was  less  serene, 
more  intent,  and  now  it  began  to  indicate  sudden 
pain.  He  panted  slightly,  as  if  he  had  received  an 
unexpected  blow  upon  the  face  which  affected  his 
breathing.  He  had  stopped  —  so  strong  was  the 
popular  feeling  —  with  his  group  of  friends  about 


THE  MOUNTAIN:   AND   THE   TOMB          279 

him,  and  made  no  movement  to  advance  into  the 
village. 

A  grumbling  by-stander  viciously  observed  that 
the  Nazarene  was  not  in  a  hurry  to  enter  the  house 
where  he  had  been  so  well  treated,  and  whose  be- 
reavement he  could  have  prevented  if  he  had  taken 
the  trouble  ;  for  there  seemed  to  be  no  doubt  but 
that  he  was  a  very  distinguished  healer. 

Jesus  entered  into  conversation  with  no  one,  but 
stood  silently,  looked  so  troubled  that  his  disciples 
felt  discouraged.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  How 
would  he  defend  himself  when  people  called  him  a 
craven  or  a  faithless  friend?  Why  had  he  let  it 
happen  as  he  had  ?  Why?  Why?  Why? 

The  old,  unanswered  question  faltered  to  their 
lips,  and  worried  their  hearts.  Their  minds  found 
no  reply  to  it. 

At  last  one  of  them  plucked  his  robe,  and  whis- 
pered to  him  that  Martha  was  coming.  Jesus  raised 
his  eyes,  it  seemed  reluctantly,  to  meet  hers.  He 
was  prepared  for  any  reproaches. 

But,  upon  the  first  glance  at  her,  his  whole  expres- 
sion changed.  Hers  was  subdued,  affectionate.  The 
voluble  housewife,  touched  by  grief,  had  acquired 
a  dignity  and  a  gentleness  which  made  another 
woman  of  her.  Her  demeanor  was  self-possessed. 
Her  voice  was  controlled.  Her  eye  met  his  frankly. 
No  veiled  reproof  was  in  it ;  scarcely  a  question 
troubled  it.  It  trusted  him. 

"  Lord,"  she  said  affectionately,  "  if  thoti  hadst 
been  here "  —  She  choked  and  stopped,  but  col- 
lected herself  bravely.  "  My  brother  would  not 


280  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

have  died,"  she  added.  "  But  I  know  that  even 
now,  whatsoever  thou  shalt  ask  of  God  " 

"  He  shall  rise  again,"  replied  Jesus  quickly.  He 
was  plainly  more  moved  by  the  confidence  of  the 
family  than  he  could  have  been  if  he  had  been 
covered  with  the  hottest  reproaches  of  grief  and  of 
disappointed  friendship.  He  seemed  anxious  now  to 
meet  Martha  on  her  own  ground,  and  to  interpret 
the  inexplicable  position  in  which  he  had  placed 
himself. 

"Yes,  Lord,  I  know.  At  the  last  day,"  said 
Martha  drearily. 

Jesus  lifted  his  face,  his  clasped  hands  parted  and 
outstretched  above  the  weeping  woman's  head.  The 
by-standers  had  ceased  to  whisper.  Evening  was 
coming  on.  The  light  was  low.  The  air  was  quiet. 
Clearly  through  the  stillness  arose  the  voice  of  the 
Nazarene,  uttering  for  the  first  time  the  great  words 
that  have  thrilled  the  mourners  of  the  world  for 
two  thousand  years,  from  the  wail  of  that  anguish 
to  the  cry  of  our  own,  and  which  will  be  uttered  in 
triumph  till  the  burial  hour  of  death  itself  shall 
strike  :  "  /  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life.  He 
that  believeth  on  me,  though  he  were  dead  .  .  .  shall 
live."  .  .  . 

Mary  was  not  like  Martha.  She  could  not  go 
hurrying  out  among  all  the  neighbors.  Her  heart 
was  breaking.  She  could  not  speak.  She  would 
answer  no  questions.  She  was  crushed  by  the  aston- 
ished despair  which  begins  when  the  first  excitement 
of  the  burial  is  past.  She  was  lying  tearless,  deso- 


THE  MOUNTAIN:   AND   THE  TOMB          281 

late,  comfortless,  when  Martha  came  back  for  her. 
The  superior  will  of  the  elder  sister  could  not  do 
much  with  the  grief  of  Mary.  The  gentle  mourner 
had  developed  the  unexpected  decision  which  suffer- 
ing gives  sometimes  to  the  docile.  Mary  shook,  her 
head  when  Martha,  in  considerable  excitement,  took 
her  by  the  hand,  indicating  that  they  were  to  go 
forth  together,  and  at  once. 

"  But  the  Rabbi  calls  for  you,"  urged  Martha, 
with  some  of  the  impatience  which  the  stronger  feels 
for  the  weaker  sufferer. 

Mary  arose  without  a  word,  veiled  herself,  and 
went  out. 

Now  Jesus  dreaded  this  meeting  with  Mary ;  she 
would  make  it  harder  than  the  elder  sister  had.  She 
was  so  sensitive,  so  dependent ;  her  nature  was  all 
love  ;  Lazarus  had  been  her  idol.  They  had  been 
nearer  of  an  age  than  he  and  Martha ;  they  were 
playmates  in  their  little  years  and  confidants  in  their 
larger  ones.  Mary  was  very  dear  to  Jesus.  Her 
high-minded  nature,  her  thoughtfulness,  her  delicacy, 
her  essential  womanliness  appealed  to  him.  And 
Mary  had  trusted  him ;  he  remembered  how  much ! 

Bereaved  of  her  brother,  bereaved  of  her  friend- 
ship, shaken  of  her  belief  in  everything  that  had 
made  the  Rabbi  precious  and  grand  to  her,  could 
she  trust  him  still  ?  She  had  not  the  force  of  will 
for  it.  But  she  had  the  force  of  love  for  it.  One 
look  into  her  delicate,  haggard  face  told  him  that. 
In  spite  of  everything  that  had  happened,  she  trusted 
him  utterly.  This  was  the  kind  of  trust  for  which 
he  sought  all  his  life.  Where  had  he  found  it  before  ? 


282  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

"  If  thou  hadst  been  here,"  she  began,  in  Martha's 
very  words,  "  he  had  not  died,  —  he  had  not  died  !  " 

But  there  she  faltered  and  broke  quite  down  ;  and 
the  poor  girl  sobbed  so  piteously  that  the  coldest 
eye  in  the  crowd  softened,  and  many  a  neighbor 
turned  his  face  away.  Mary  had  thrown  herself 
upon  the  ground  at  the  healer's  feet ;  her  lips  and 
her  tears  touched  them.  His  face  worked ;  he  was 
greatly  moved ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  bear  to 
look  at  her. 

Suddenly  the  by-standers  heard  a  heart-breaking 
sound.  It  was  the  groan  of  a  strong  and  sensitive 
man,  who  has  repressed  the  expression  of  grief  till 
it  has  revolted  against  him,  and  will  obey  him  no 
longer. 

The  Nazarene  was  weeping. 

Lazarus  had  lain  in  his  elaborate  tomb  three  days  ; 
being  four  days  dead.  It  was  the  fancy  of  his  people 
to  believe  that  the  spirit  clung  to  the  flesh  until 
such  time,  when  it  parted  therefrom  forever ;  and 
the  laws  that  govern  the  insensate  body  when  de- 
prived of  its  lord,  the  soul,  should,  as  a  consequence, 
begin  to  act  without  hindrance. 

The  tomb  of  Lazarus  was  by  the  wayside,  carved 
into  the  limestone  of  the  hill  on  which  the  village 
was  built.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  spacious  cave  running 
deep  into  the  rock ;  one  descended  into  it  by  many 
steps  ;  it  was  protected  by  a  heavy,  movable  slab. 
The  silver  foliage  of  olive-trees  softened  the  scenery 
above  it ;  flowering  vines  hung  over  the  fa§ade  of  the 
vault,  and  everything  that  wealth  and  family  defer- 


THE  MOUNTAIN:   AND   THE  TOMB          283 

ence  knew  how  to  do  had  signalized  it;  but  there 
was  nothing  cheerful  about  it.  The  Hebrew  grave 
knew  not  the  hopes  of  a  happier  faith,  and  little  of 
the  delicacies  of  modern  feeling.  Lazarus  was  dead. 
He  was  buried.  There  was  no  more  to  be  said.  He 
was  locked  back  into  the  cells  of  the  earth's  ancient 
prison,  and  despair,  the  jailer,  held  the  keys. 

"  Where  have  you  laid  him  ? "  the  healer  had 
asked,  in  a  voice  almost  inaudible  from  grief. 

Some  one  had  silently  pointed  in  the  direction  of 
the  family  burial  place. 

Some  one  else  had  said : 

"  See  !     How  much  he  loved  him  !  " 

Whispering  and  muttering,  the  collection  of  peo- 
ple, which  was  now  large  for  a  village  crowd,  had 
followed  the  Rabbi,  his  disciples,  and  the  bereaved 
family.  The  outside  mourners  hastened  to  swell 
the  number.  As  they  approached  the  tomb,  they 
began  to  wail  aloud  officiously.  This  seemed  to 
trouble  the  Nazarene  ;  and  one  of  the  twelve  tried 
to  hush  the  dreary  sounds. 

The  sun  was  now  declining  fast.  The  evening 
was  cool.  The  sky  was  a  deep,  palpitating  blue, 
brushed  with  rose,  that  had  taken  on  the  form  of 
a  great  wing,  extending  almost  from  west  to  east. 
This  was  an  unusual  effect,  and  attracted  attention. 
Shadows  were  already  beginning  to  dream  among 
the  olive-trees.  The  air  was  remarkably  still.  Not 
a  leaf  stirred.  There  was  no  more  breath  in  the 
wind  than  there  was  life  behind  the  stone  that  locked 
the  cavern.  The  living  themselves  felt  suffocated. 
Respiration  seemed  to  be  ceasing  in  the  world. 


284  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Jesus  stood  alone,  apart  from  his  friends.  He 
and  the  tomb  faced  each  other.  He  regarded  it 
steadily.  The  sepulchre  seemed  to  frown.  The 
wing  of  rose-color  in  the  skies  deepened  slightly. 
The  tint  was  reflected  upon  the  white  robe  of  Jesus. 
His  hands  were  clasped  so  tightly  that  they  seemed 
welded  together ;  and  his  fingers  darkened  towards 
their  tips,  where  the  circulation  was  checked.  The 
features  of  his  face  were  rigid.  He  observed  no  one. 
No  man  dared  address  him. 

What  thoughts,  incommunicable,  incomprehensi- 
ble, traversed  the  solitary  corridors  of  his  mind  ? 
The  supreme  deed  of  his  life  lay  before  him.  What 
if  he  failed  in  it?  What  had  he  staked  on  it?  His 
reputation  for  common,  human  gratitude  and  loyalty 
to  friendship  was  precious  to  him.  His  fame  as  a 
compassionate  healer  had  its  noble  value.  If  these 
went,  what  should  he  leave  ?  The  memory  of  a  man 
who  had  preached  great  truths  and  neglected  prac- 
tical virtues,  —  a  prospect  peculiarly  abhorrent  to 
him.  But  if  these  went,  what  else  would  go  with 
them  ?  What  grander  name,  what  more  transcend- 
ent claim  ?  If  the  events  of  the  next  half  hour  did 
not  verify  the  most  solemn,  the  most  mysterious 
assumptions  of  his  history,  what  would  be  lost  ?  The 
hopes,  the  ideals,  the  future  of  one  heart-broken 
man  ?  Nay ;  the  hopes,  the  ideals,  the  future  of  a 
world.  For  thus  he  did  believe.  u  I  am  the  Resur- 
rection," he  had  said ;  "  I  am  the  Life." 

The  moment  was  so  critical  that  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  that  no  man  might  see  its  exi- 
gency. But  all  men  felt  that  he  was  praying. 


THE   MOUNTAIN  :   AND   THE  TOMB          285 

When  Jesus  lifted  his  face,  the  people  fell  back. 
The  stillness  without  was  as  deep  as  that  within  the 
tomb.  He  pointed  to  the  stone. 

u  Roll  it  away  !  "  he  commanded. 

Recoiling  hands  obeyed  him.  Ghastly  fear  had 
settled  upon  the  spectators.  Many  of  them  would 
have  escaped  the  scene  if  they  had  found  themselves 
able  to  stir. 

Jesus  advanced  slowly.  He  had  grown  very  pale. 
Otherwise  he  showed  no  agitation.  He  treated  the 
tomb  authoritatively.  He  had  the  aspect  of  a  king 
about  to  overthrow  a  great  foe. 

"  Lazarus  ?  " 

Something  in  the  accent  laid  upon  this  single 
word  shook  the  souls  of  those  who  heard  it.  Could 
a  dead  man  hear  ?  Should  the  buried  answer  ?  Je- 
sus bent  as  if  he  would  have  entered  the  place  of 
burial. 

"Lazarus!    COME  FORTH!" 

The  shuddering  breaths  of  the  people  could  be 
distinctly  heard.  For  a  moment  there  was  no  other 
answer  to  this  awful  summons.  Then  the  sepulchre 
replied.  She  yielded  hard.  Centuries  crowded 
those  moments.  Dusk  was  deepening.  Within  the 
house  of  death  it  was  quite  dark.  .  .  . 

Are  we  sane  men  or  delirious  ?  We  are  too  many 
to  be  mad !  Cling  together !  Close  up,  shoulder 
to  shoulder.  Take  courage  and  reason  from  one 
another's  eyes.  For  what,  in  God's  name,  do  we 
see?  ... 

Stooping  to  pass  through  the  low  door  of  the 
tomb,  the  outlines  of  a  fearful  figure  stirred. 


286  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Lazarus,  four  days  a  dead  man,  hindered  by  his 
grave-clothes,  moved  with  difficulty.  He  slowly 
raised  himself  upright,  walked  out  a  few  steps,  stood 
bewildered  among  all  the  people,  and  solemnly  re- 
garded the  Nazarene. 


CHAPTER   Xin 

INTO   JERUSALEM 

WHAT  was  to  be  said  ?  Jerusalem  and  her  sub- 
urbs trembled  with  wonder  and  dismay.  The  as- 
tounding story  admitted  of  no  qualifying  interpre- 
tation. It  must  be  accepted  or  rejected  altogether. 
It  soon  became  evident  that  rejection  was  impossible. 
Lazarus  had  been  a  live  man  a  week  ago.  Dead, 
and  four  days  buried  yesterday,  he  was  alive  to-day. 
It  was  only  necessary  to  visit  Bethany  and  see  for 
one's  self.  Hundreds  hurried,  gaping,  to  the  spot. 
Curiosity  inundated  the  village.  His  house  was  be- 
sieged. It  was  only  a  matter  of  hours  before  the 
incredible  facts  were  dashed  into  the  face  of  the 
church.  The  governing  authorities  took  fright. 
The  Sanhedrin  was  hastily  convened.  The  case  of 
the  Jewish  nation  against  Jesus  of  Nazareth  was 
formally  opened  that  very  Friday,  within  twenty- 
four  hours  after  Lazarus  had  emerged  from  his 
tomb,  and  stood  staring  amid  the  flowers,  in  the 
approach  of  night,  among  the  appalled  and  silent 
witnesses  of  the  inconceivable  truth. 

Strictly  speaking,  the  preliminaries  to  the  arrest 
of  the  great  heretic  were  all  illegal.  The  Sanhedrin 
had  no  civil  or  criminal  jurisdiction,  except  by  the 
mercy  of  Rome,  and  the  hastiness  of  their  procedure 


288  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

was  in  itself  irregular.  But  all  formalities,  ecclesi- 
astical, civic,  or  humane,  were  distorted  by  one  mad 
thrust.  Lazarus  had  come  out  of  his  grave,  —  how, 
who  could  pretend  to  explain  ?  But  he  was  out,  and 
the  Nazarene  had  done  the  deed.  The  people  were 
frenzied  with  the  thrill  of  it.  They  were  massing 
from  all  quarters  to  rally  about  Jesus.  The  cry, 
"  Messiah  !  the  Messiah !  "  rang  through  capital 
and  countryside. 

Pharisees  and  Sadducees,  priests  and  scribes,  stood 
quaking.  The  greatest  insurrection  of  Hebrew  re- 
cord seemed  to  be  upon  them.  It  would  be  no  insig- 
nificant riot  if  this  terrible  Rabbi  should  lift  a  finger 
to  enforce  his  royal  claims.  Then  Rome  would  stir. 
Her  legions  would  awake.  Her  awful  force  would 
roll  upon  the  rebels.  The  Temple,  the  nation,  would 
be  ground  to  dust  that  a  wind  might  blow  away. 
And  whose  fault  that  ?  His,  —  all  his  ;  this  rustic 
pretender's,  this  indomitable  preacher's,  this  scan- 
dalous heretic's  !  The  venom  against  Jesus,  always 
sullenly  lurking  among  the  religious  classes,  now 
developed  into  sudden  rabies.  One  of  those  pas- 
sionate ecclesiastical  hatreds  which  challenge  all 
other  forms  of  rage  swept  through  the  Sanhedrin. 

In  the  uproar  of  indecision,  —  all  united  only  in 
fearing  and  abhorring  the  Nazarene,  no  two  agreed 
as  to  what  should  be  done  to  him,  —  the  cold  voice 
of  the  chief  ecclesiastical  officer  was  heard. 

Joseph  Caiaphas,  being  High-priest  of  the  Jewish 
nation,  and  forever  to  be  known  by  this  deed  that 
he  did,  arose  and  adroitly  put  the  case.  In  a  few 
cynical  words,  sedulously  adapted  to  inflame  the 


INTO  JERUSALEM  289 

animosity  and  alarm  of  the  Sanhedrin,  he  brought 
it  to  his  will.  The  sinister  suggestion,  that  here  was 
one  man's  life  against  the  life  of  a  nation,  was 
enough.  A  glow  of  what  was  called  patriotism  suf- 
fused the  convention.  Jesus  of  Nazareth  was  hotly 
indicted  as  a  criminal  subject  to  the  death  penalty. 

In  Jerusalem  what  restlessness,  what  malice  !  In 
Bethany  what  happiness,  what  peace ! 

Jesus  had  done  one  of  the  bravest  deeds  of  his 
life.  He  had  gone  straight  from  the  opened  sepul- 
chre to  the  house  of  his  friends.  In  the  blazing 
state  of  public  feeling,  this  was  a  dangerous  step. 
The  rumor  of  the  resurrection  had  fired  all  his 
friends  and  foes,  and,  in  the  region  of  the  capital, 
his  foes  held  the  balance  of  power.  Why  did  he 
not  immediately  and  quietly  slip  away,  as  he  had 
often  done  before  when  the  wonder-working  force  in 
him  had  gone  too  far  for  his  own  personal  safety  ? 
But  his  heart  and  purpose  took  him,  and  he  went 
home  with  Lazarus. 

Curtained  by  the  soft,  warm  night,  the  family 
group  trod  in  a  celestial  hush.  For  very  awe  the 
neighbors  and  spectators  held  aloof,  following  at  the 
distance  of  their  fear. 

Four  silent  figures  moved  on  together  up  the  vil- 
lage street.  No  man  dared  approach  them.  Mary 
and  Martha  fell  behind ;  Martha  was  sobbing  with 
joy,  but  Mary  was  as  still  as  a  marble  saint.  Before 
them,  separate  from  tears  or  smiles,  from  common 
human  laws  or  expression,  two  leaned  together  and 
apart  from  all  the  world.  Dim  in  the  darkness,  Laza- 


290  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

rus  clung  to  the  strong  arm  whose  support  he  sought. 
He  seemed  to  be  listening  yet  for  the  voice  that  had 
summoned  him  from  the  fastnesses  of  death.  But 
Jesus  did  not  speak.  Moving  like  spirits,  the  twain 
passed  on.  And  so  Lazarus  came  to  his  house.  The 
mourners  had  left  it  but  an  hour  ago.  The  over- 
turned tables  and  couches  —  the  customary  signals 
of  affliction  —  were  not  yet  replaced.  The  disorder 
of  death  and  burial  still  pervaded  the  expectant 
court  and  the  beautiful  rooms.  All  were  empty. 
The  family  were  alone.  No  profane  eye  witnessed 
that  solemn  coming  home.  At  the  threshold  Jesus 
paused,  and  extended  his  arms  in  benediction  and 
in  welcome.  Lazarus  fell,  like  a  shadow,  at  his  feet. 
The  women  dropped  upon  their  faces.  No  one 
spoke.  The  faint  light  from  one  hanging  lamp  left 
by  the  mourners  revealed  the  majestic  form  but  not 
the  inscrutable  face  of  the  Nazarene. 

...  In  this  shelter  of  awe,  of  joy,  of  remoteness 
from  all  usual  pains  and  pleasures,  he  remained  for 
the  respite  and  the  risk  of  several  days  and  nights. 
Jerusalem  began  to  mutter  for  his  life,  but  he  stayed 
on.  He  was  visible  to  no  man.  Shut  in  with  the 
solemn  experience  of  that  one  family  selected  to 
know  the  ecstasy  of  heaven  while  enduring  the  an- 
guish of  earth,  he  veiled  himself. 

Who  shall  say  what  interchange  of  feeling  or  of 
thought  in  that  quiet  space  passed  between  himself 
and  the  living  man  who  had  been  dead?  Who 
knows  if  Lazarus  needed  yet  the  glorious  vitality, 
the  supernal  power,  which  had  dragged  him  from 
dissolution  ?  Is  it  to  be  thought  that  Jesus,  careful 


INTO   JERUSALEM  291 

for  the  permanence  of  the  mighty  thing  that  had 
been  done,  chose  to  watch  for  a  little  over  the  man 
on  whose  body  he  had  wrought  the  deed  of  a  divin- 
ity ?  He  had  done  it  under  the  limitations  of  a 
man.  What  if  Lazarus  showed  signs  of  weakness, 
of  relapse  into  the  disease  which  had  slain  him  ?  If 
he  should  sink  suddenly?  If  the  astonished  vital 
force,  wrenched  back  into  the  mortal  frame  by  the 
law  above  laws  which  it  had  obeyed,  should  hesitate 
anywhere?  Dead  Lazarus  lived.  Who  could  say 
that  he  would  continue  to  live  ? 

Sensitiveness  to  possible  failure,  and  anxiety  for 
results,  exist  in  proportion  to  refinement  of  power. 
In  those  days  smitten  with  awe  and  ecstasy,  whose 
scroll  no  one  unrolled  with  the  shielded  family  at 
Bethany,  did  the  heart  of  their  great  friend  quiver 
with  an  anxiety  over  the  condition  of  Lazarus  which 
even  they  could  not  divine  or  share  ? 

These  were  the  last  days  of  happiness  or  calm 
which  Jesus  of  Nazareth  was  to  know  in  the  land 
that  he  had  tried  to  bless  with  his  mysterious  per- 
sonality, and  which  now  resounded  with  curses  upon 
his  gentle  head. 

This  last  little  cup  of  peace  was  tinged  —  as  every- 
thing in  his  life  was  discolored  with  suffering  —  by 
the  solitary  and  tremendous  responsibilities  attach- 
ing to  him  who  could  give  a  dead  man  life. 

The  future  of  the  Christian  faith  rested  at  the 
crisis,  to  an  extent  impossible  to  measure,  upon  the 
necessity  that  Lazarus  should  remain  a  live  man  for 
a  sufficient  time.  It  has  been  said  1  that  he  lived 
on  for  thirty  years. 

1  Tradition. 


292  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Bearing  within  himself  the  experience  of  corrup- 
tion, what  vigor  did  he  need  to  reconquer  the  sources 
of  life  !  How  did  he  get  it  ?  Holding  the  awful  se- 
crets of  death,  at  whose  door  humanity  has  knocked 
in  vain  for  knowledge  from  the  break  of  time  till 
now,  did  he  ever  reveal  them  by  a  word,  a  sign  ? 
Did  curious  Martha  or  reverent  Mary  ever  share 
with  him  one  lesson  of  his  terrible  and  blessed  edu- 
cation ?  Rather  to  his  last  hour  did  there  rest  upon 
Lazarus  something  of  the  dignity  of  death.  His  lips 
were  closed.  No  person  pried  upon  their  reticence. 
His  lips  were  closed  like  those  of  the  sepulchre  from 
which  he  had  been  summoned,  and  to  whose  dark 
hospitality  he  must  —  who  can  guess  with  what 
untold  reluctance  ?  who  can  say  with  what  inexpres- 
sible hope  and  courage  ?  —  on  some  day  return. 

Be  these  things  as  they  may,  the  dead  man  was 
alive.  By  hundreds,  by  thousands,  the  witnesses  of 
the  fact  poured  into  Bethany.  So  intense  was  the 
public  excitement  that  the  Sanhedrin  were  at  their 
wits'  end.  It  is  a  matter  of  history  that,  before  the 
month  was  out  within  whose  dark  span  the  greatest 
of  dramas  was  to  thrill  the  world,  the  authorities  of 
the  Jewish  Church  seriously  contemplated  an  at- 
tempt to  put  Lazarus  to  death  again. 

The  Nazarene  was  now  in  imminent  peril.  Threats 
of  excommunication  against  any  person  who  acknow- 
ledged his  Messianic  claims  vied  with  popular  in- 
ducements to  effect  his  arrest.  It  was  determined 
at  all  hazards  to  put  a  stop  to  his  career.  The  dan- 
ger became  so  acute  that  Jesus  reluctantly  left 
Bethany. 


INTO   JERUSALEM  293 

The  strange  impressions  under  which  his  move- 
ments were  ordered  produced  a  plan  of  action  which 
gave  for  the  moment  to  the  most  courageous  of  men 
the  appearance  of  retreat  from  his  fate. 

"  My  time  is  not  yet  come,"  was  a  favorite  phrase 
with  him.  Suddenly  he  disappeared.  Jerusalem 
and  Bethany  sought  without  success  for  him.  The 
detectives  of  the  Sanhedrin  tracked  him  in  vain. 

At  a  sufficient  distance  from  their  malice;  in  a 
little  town  known  as  Ephraim,  always  remembered 
lovingly  for  the  shelter  that  it  gave  to  the  hunted 
man  at  the  cruelest  crisis  of  his  lot ;  on  the  borders 
of  the  wilderness,  he  crept  into  a  temporary  safety. 
But  he  dared  not,  or  he  did  not,  long  remain  in  any 
one  retreat.  He  was  soon  heard  of  in  Perea,  and 
even  in  certain  districts  of  Galilee.  The  itinerant 
habits  of  his  public  life  were  still  strong  upon  him. 
He  could  not  keep  still.  He  could  not  stop  work. 
With  intensified  energy  he  pursued  the  service  to 
humanity  which  he  so  passionately  loved.  To  lighten 
suffering !  To  ease  sickness !  To  help  poverty ! 
To  shame  guilt !  To  confirm  purity !  To  heal,  to 
comfort,  to  teach,  to  warn  !  With  exclamatory  force 
these  motives  propelled  him.  Those  last  few  weeks 
brimmed  with  marvels  wrought  out  of  a  dedication 
which  would  have  burned  him  to  ashes  but  for  his 
illustrious  sanity.  He  kept  his  perfect  self-posses- 
sion. He  never  lost  his  eminent  calm.  He  worked 
as  if  he  were  to  work  on  forever. 

Lepers  crawling  to  him  ran  from  him  :  they  came 
corrupt ;  they  went  clean.  The  born  blind  groped 
to  him,  and  left  him,  lingering  reluctantly  for  the 


294  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

last  sight  of  his  face,  —  the  first  human  countenance 
that  they  had  ever  seen,  the  one  to  be  retained  by 
the  newly  responsive,  sensitive  retina  as  the  tender- 
est  it  should  ever  see.  His  heart,  his  mind,  were 
full.  It  seemed  as  if  he  gave  himself  no  time  to 
consider  his  own  fate.  He  ignored  his  own  perils. 
He  worked  as  if  he  had  been  the  most  popular  Kabbi 
in  Palestine. 

The  condemned  heretic  never  wore  the  aspect  of 
an  offender. 

He  did  not  even  have  the  comfort  which  comes 
from  the  grandeur  of  suffering  greatly  endured  and 
let  alone.  He  was  haunted  and  taunted  by  the 
pettiest  things. 

In  the  territory  of  Herod  deliberate  traps  were 
laid  for  the  views  of  Jesus  about  divorce,  it  being 
the  purpose  publicly  to  draw  from  him  expressions 
of  opinion  which  would  expose  him  to  the  vengeance 
of  the  monarch,  whose  family  history  made  him  irri- 
table on  this  delicate  point. 

John  the  prophet  had  perished  for  such  cause. 
Why  not  this  other?  Jesus  parried  the  diabolic 
casuistry  with  adroitness  which  astounded  and  si- 
lenced the  wiliest  polemicists  in  the  province.  They 
could  not  even  involve  him  in  a  rabbinical  contro- 
versy, that  might  have  opened  a  fresh  charge  of 
heresy  against  him  then  and  there. 

He  was  pursued  by  paltry  annoyances  even  among 
his  own  friends.  Those  nearest  to  him  fretted  him 
with  incredible  obtuseness.  His  very  dearest  cut 
him  with  the  slenderest  blades. 

His  favorite  disciples  wrangled  even  then  about 


INTO  JERUSALEM  295 

their  official  positions  at  right  and  left  of  him  when 
he  should  come  to  the  throne.  He  found  it  impos- 
sible to  make  them  understand  the  very  essence  of 
his  claims,  the  very  basis  of  his  doctrines.  Femi- 
nine ambition  laid  a  little  finger  on  his  great  trou- 
bles, and  the  mother  of  James  and  John  preferred 
a  formal  petition  for  the  advancement  of  her  sons 
when  he  should  come  into  political  power.  He 
knew  to  the  full  the  incoherence  of  human  fate 
which  does  not  relieve  great  souls  moving  on  grand 
errands  of  small  worries,  or  free  the  noble  from 
paltry  cares. 

His  chosen  twelve  gave  themselves  over  to  jeal- 
ousies almost  too  petty  to  credit  or  to  record,  while 
this  sad  and  solitary  man,  going  patiently  to  defeat, 
was  making  ready  for  death. 

There  now  began  the  most  extraordinary  episode 
in  the  annals  of  missionary  travel,  —  the  last  jour- 
ney of  the  Nazarene  to  Jerusalem.  While  yet  in  a 
safe  position,  he  abruptly  elected  to  thrust  himself 
into  danger.  Sheltered,  he  tore  himself  out  of  his 
refuge.  It  was  the  bud  of  the  year.  Passover  time 
was  coining  on.  It  was  not  necessary  for  him  to 
attend  the  great  festival,  —  he,  an  excommunicated 
church  -  member,  whose  deference  to  ecclesiastical 
customs  could  do  nothing  but  irritate.  But,  as  if 
he  were  yet  one  of  the  most  honored  of  her  rabbis, 
he  chose  to  respect  the  religious  observances  of  his 
church.  Quite  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  exactly 
as  if  nothing  were  at  stake,  he  started  with  his 
twelve  and  some  other  friends,  forming  one  of  the 
little  festive  bands  with  which  Palestine  was  now 
stirring  joyously. 


296  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

He  was  under  no  delusion.  No  false  hope  played 
with  his  unerring  intelligence.  He  knew  perfectly 
what  that  journey  meant.  Deliberately  he  chose  to 
put  himself  into  the  very  throat  of  danger.  Stead- 
ily, sturdily,  without  one  backward  step,  without  one 
hesitating  movement,  he  marched  to  his  doom. 

Its  very  details  were  made,  at  that  early  day, 
quite  evident  to  him.  How,  no  one  asked.  Upon 
his  exquisite  sensitiveness  the  whole  horrible  minu- 
tiae were  stamped.  All  through  those  tired  days 
and  waking  nights  he  lived  his  fate  through  before 
its  time.  The  delicacy  of  imagination,  which  is  the 
essence  of  power  and  pleasure  in  the  highest  organi- 
zation, is  always  the  fatal  source  of  its  pain.  He 
knew  to  the  uttermost  the  relentlessness  of  this  law. 
Add  to  this  his  mystical  enlightenment  as  to  facts 
unknown  to  other  men.  Here  was  illumination 
whose  working  is  no  easier  for  us  to  explain  to-day 
than  it  was  for  his  fishermen  friends  to  comprehend 
as  they  turned  their  faces  towards  Jerusalem  with 
him  in  the  laughing  spring  weather.  They  alone 
among  all  the  happy  pilgrims  were  going  upon  an 
awful  errand  which  they  did  not,  would  not,  could 
not  understand. 

He  tried  to  explain  it  to  them  as  they  traveled. 
He  told  them  dreadful  things.  He  used  unsparing 
language.  What  he  should  undergo,  and  when  and 
where,  he  related  with  distinctness.  He  spoke  with 
calmness  of  unendurable  torment. 

Where  were  the  senses  of  his  friends?  Dulled 
by  trouble,  or  blunted  by  love  ?  Dazed,  perhaps, 
by  the  sheer  force  of  events  which  hurried  them 


INTO   JERUSALEM  297 

along  a  course  inconceivable  to  their  prepossessions. 
They  acted  like  people  stupefied  by  the  conviction 
that  they  knew  better  than  their  Rabbi  what  should 
happen  to  him.  Aching  for  sympathy,  he  found 
himself  denied  it  because  his  dearest  friends  did  not 
credit  his  preconsciousness  of  his  fate.  They  treated 
him  as  too  sanguine  persons  treat  those  more  sensi- 
tive, and  hence  more  anxious  than  themselves,  dis- 
missing the  matter  as  the  nightmare  of  an  unhealthy 
temperament.  Yet  it  were  unphilosophical  to  blame 
them.  He  never  did.  It  was  a  severe  education 
that  their  affection  for  their  Lord  brought  upon 
these  simple-natured  men.  They  loved  him  accord- 
ing to  their  capacity.  At  least  it  was  the  best  kind 
of  love  that  he  had.  He  clung  to  it  more  and  more 
wistfully  as  the  end  drew  on. 

Burning  Jericho  swam  in  a  crater  of  heat.  The 
travelers  would  have  known  where  they  were  by  the 
temperature,  if  not  by  the  map.  They  must  pass 
through  a  scorched  and  treeless  region  to  reach  the 
place,  and  they  arrived  exhausted.  This  was  the 
town  where  the  inhabitants  could  wear  nothing 
warmer  than  linen  in  winter.  And  spring  was 
bursting  into  summer  now.  The  heat  was  oppres- 
sive to  strangers,  and  more  than  hard  enough  to 
those  who  had  traveled  on  foot,  and  who  reached 
.the  city  at  the  end  of  a  long  day's  march.  The  sky 
was  like  a  metal  cover  shutting  one  down  into  a 
brazier  set  upon  coals.  The  air  was  a  furnace. 

Jesus  felt  his  strength  attacked  by  the  climate 
of  this  place.     It  was  a  little  misery,  but  it  made 


298  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

his  greater  sufferings  more  difficult  to  bear.  The 
scented  gusts  of  fire  beat  without  mercy  upon  his 
burning  face  and  brow.  The  too-sweet  odors  of 
Jericho  the  Perfumed  aroused  distaste  in  fine 
senses.  He  lifted  his  eyes  wearily  to  the  balsam- 
plantations,  whose  rich  gums  devoured  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  air.  These  were  the  famous  plantations 
once  given  by  Anthony  to  Cleopatra,  and  sold  by 
her  to  Herod.  Here  was  a  bustling  town.  The 
streets  were  full  and  noisy.  Trade  chattered  every- 
where,—  the  great  balsam  traffic  of  Palestine,  which 
made  this  spot  the  centre  of  schemes  and  frauds, 
and  the  meeting-place  of  commercial  natures.  Rome 
took  heavy  revenues  there,  and  made  much  account 
of  her  tax-collectors,  whose  duties  were  not  light  in 
such  a  place,  and  whose  persons  were  bitterly  un- 
popular with  her  subjects.  The  Hebrews  shunned 
these  men  with  a  distrust  as  scorching  as  the  atmos- 
phere. 

The  chief  collector,  wishing  to  see  the  great  Rabbi 
as  he  entered  the  perfumed  city  at  the  head  of  his 
band  of  pilgrims,  climbed  into  a  thick  tree  by  the 
roadside  to  escape  the  crush  of  the  crowd,  for  he  was 
an  under-sized  man,  and  also  to  escape  its  enmity, 
for  he  was  not  an  obtuse  person.  There  he  quietly 
took  the  measure  of  the  famous  preacher. 

He  saw  a  tall,  finely  modeled  man,  browned  by 
the  excess  of  the  sun,  but  singularly  without  redness  • 
or  rudeness  of  complexion.  Jesus  was  walking 
slowly.  His  staff  looked  ready  to  drop  from  his 
tired  hand ;  it  had  a  white  tint  at  the  tip,  like  a 
sceptre  of  silver  blazing  in  the  hot  air.  His  face 


INTO   JERUSALEM  299 

bore  signs  of  weariness  both  of  the  spirit  and  of  the 
flesh,  but  none  of  weakness. 

A  puzzling  strength  seemed  to  fortify  this  ex- 
hausted pilgrim.  The  collector  examined  him  with 
a  discernment  in  which  reverence  began  to  get  the 
better  of  curiosity.  He  did  not  speak  to  the  distin- 
guished Rabbi.  He  would  have  liked  to  do  so  ;  his 
heart  went  out  in  such  a  wave  of  longing  as  this 
man  of  public  experience  had  never  felt  to  any  pri- 
vate citizen.  Official  life  had  done  its  cold  work 
upon  him  ;  sly  opportunities  had  hot  passed  him  by ; 
the  consciousness  of  always  being  unpopular  had 
told  upon  him ;  he  was  accumulating  peccadillos  ; 
ideas  of  honor  to  which  he  had  sworn  allegiance  at 
the  outset  of  his  career  were  somehow  slipping  into 
phantasmagoria.  The  man  of  the  world  who  had 
sunk  a  little  lower  than  he  was  meant  to  go,  or  than 
he  had  ever  thought  to  be,  regarded  the  Nazarene 
with  a  strange  pang,  half  shame,  half  moral  resolve. 
Then  he  saw  that  Jesus  had  stopped,  and  was  look- 
ing him  full  in  the  face. 

"  Come  down,  Zacchseus,"  said  the  Rabbi ;  "  I 
sup  at  your  house." 

It  had  not  been  a  cautious  thing  to  do,  but  Jesus 
had  done  it  with  his  usual  independence.  The  Jews 
hated  the  collector,  but  Jesus  became  the  guest  of 
ZacchaBus  at  Jericho  without  asking  his  country- 
men's permission.  The  moral  crisis  in  the  life  of 
an  unpopular  and  tempted  man  appealed  to  him  so 
powerfully  that  he  put  aside  every  other  considera- 
tion to  reach  it.  This  one  soul  above  all  others  in 
Jericho  needed  him.  Here  was  one  of  the  opportu- 


300  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

nities  to  help  an  individual  which  he  never  disre- 
garded. 

The  collector  entertained  the  Rabbi  deferentially : 
he  poured  out  the  hospitality  of  an  opulent  home 
with  the  generous  gratitude  of  a  man  who  has  been 
forced  back  to  his  true  self  by  the  power  of  a  higher 
nature.  But  the  people  muttered. 

At  this  stage  of  his  royal  career,  what  kind  of 
a  king  was  that?  Zacchaeus  was  not  recognized  in 
respectable  Hebrew  society.  Should  the  Messiah 
of  the  nation  fellowship  with  an  outcast?  Jesus 
ignored  these  complaints.  But  they  stirred  sound- 
waves in  the  hot  balsamic  air,  and  echoes  of  them 
came  into  the  capital.  Every  Passover  pilgrim  car- 
ried his  own  tale.  The  conduct  of  the  distinguished 
heretic  was  the  subject  of  discussion  in  every  tent, 
in  every  shop  and  house ;  there  was  not  a  political 
or  ecclesiastical  caucus  in  Jerusalem  which  did  not 
hiss  with  his  name. 

Jesus  found  his  acquaintance  with  this  man  of 
affairs  at  Jericho  a  comforting  episode  to  himself. 
This  successful  effort  to  uplift  the  moral  tone  of  an- 
other was  a  temporary  diversion  from  the  acute  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  lot.  The  two  parted  with  a 
mutual  regret.  The  man  of  the  world  looked  rever- 
ently at  the  Nazarene :  he  felt  that  the  man  of  an- 
other world  existed  ;  he  had  never  believed  it  before  ; 
he  tried  to  express  his  thoughts,  —  he  who  was  adept 
in  the  diplomacy  of  Roman  official  life,  —  but  he 
could  not,  and  he  turned  away  to  hide  his  emotion. 

Jesus  moved  on  at  the  head  of  his  pilgrim  band. 
The  bright  morning  blazed  like  a  huge  camp-fire. 


INTO   JERUSALEM  301 

The  party  walked  on  among  the  plantations.  Jeri- 
cho on  her  oasis  added  the  breath  of  leaf -honey 
to  the  perfumes  of  the  balsams.  In  the  sickening 
scents,  the  path  swam  before  the  eyes  of  Jesus.  His 
thoughts  swam,  too..  That  brief  distraction  vanished 
out  of  them.  Jericho,  its  welcome,  its  hospitality, 
the  collector  and  his  moral  emergency,  began  to  dim. 
Images  of  unspeakable  things  which  had  beset  the 
imagination  before  returned.  Outlines  of  terrible 
scenes  began  to  fill  in.  Jesus  walked  giddily,  and 
was  seen  once  or  twice  to  stagger.  .  .  .  The  sun 
smote  his  head  and  made  a  rim  around  it.  .  .  . 
What  was  that?  Thorns?  He  passed  his  hand 
over  his  brow  and  then  examined  the  palm  carefully. 
What  color  did  he  see  ?  One  of  the  twelve  spoke 
to  him.  He  found  it  impossible  to  answer.  He 
walked  on  silently.  His  head  sank  upon  his  breast. 
.  .  .  What  sights !  What  sensations !  Surely  they 
would  pass  soon.  He  quickened  his  steps.  But  it 
all  kept  pace  with  him.  .  .  . 

So  he  came  into  the  great  gorge  through  which 
the  road  from  Jericho  wound  harshly  towards  Jeru- 
salem. It  was  a  steep,  rocky  cut,  rough  to  pass  and 
haunted  by  robbers.  Six  hours'  travel  on  foot  took 
the  ascent  from  six  hundred  feet  below  to  nearly 
three  thousand  above  the  level  of  the  Mediterranean. 
It  was  an  exhausting  climb. 

Jesus  walked  at  the  head  of  his  Passover  band. 
Shadows  and  lights  from  the  broken  features  of  the 
rocks  that  lined  the  way  alternately  illuminated  and 
veiled  his  ascending  figure.  The  gorge  grew  ruder. 
Its  dreariness  deepened.  He  looked  down  into  its 


302  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

grim  depths  with  a  sick  repulsion ;  they  seemed  to 
be  waiting  below  for  him. 

"  Though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  death  "  — 
Old  words  from  the  Scriptures  of  his  people  came 
to  him.  He  reinforced  his  strength  for  the  ascent, 
which  he  made  powerfully  and  silently.  Once  or 
twice  he  slipped  unaccountably,  and  seemed  to 
weaken ;  but  when  asked  what  had  befallen  him,  he 
made  no  reply. 

At  moments  he  moved  like  a  man  who  carried 
some  strange,  intolerable  burden. 

.  .  .  What  was  that  upon  his  shoulders,  bearing 
heavily  upon  them,  crushing  him  to  the  ground? 
Had  the  light  spring  air  acquired  weight?  He  put 
up  his  hand  and  brushed  off  something  unseen.  It 
seemed  to  him  to  have  a  frightful  shape,  significant 
of  disgrace,  portending  agony. 

"Through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  .  .  .  Thou 
shalt  be  with  me." 

And  now  the  festal  bands  began  to  gather  them- 
selves in  preparation  for  the  journey's  end.  Jerusa- 
lem lay  yonder ;  the  city  of  God  and  of  his  people. 
Soon  the  marble  and  gold  of  the  Temple  would  cut 
the  glittering  air.  Soon  the  ancient  Songs  of  Ascent 
would  swell  from  ten  thousand  throats  as  the  pil- 
grims climbed  the  last  slopes  to  the  sacred  city. 
Soon  the  joyful  solemnity  of  the  Passover  supper 
would  blot  the  hardship  of  the  pilgrimage  from  a 
weary  memory.  The  lambs,  already  bound  and 
bleating,  with  gentle,  patient  faces  waited  for  the 
sacrifice. 


INTO   JERUSALEM  303 

It  was  Bethany,  the  peaceful  hamlet  carried  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  Mount  of  Olives.  Jesus  and  his 
party  had  lingered  here.  It  lacked  now  six  days  of 
the  Passover.  He  longed  for  a  temporary  rest,  for 
the  touch  of  tried  friendship.  His  emergency  was 
so  great  that  he  felt  a  pathetic  need  of  a  little 
comfort. 

The  usual  Passover  crowd  was  increased  to  an 
extraordinary  size.  From  all  corners  of  Palestine 
and  all  quarters  of  the  East,  sightseers  had  added 
themselves  to  the  customary  pilgrims.  Cold  curi- 
osity, political  and  ecclesiastical  malice,  blotted  the 
religious  anniversary. 

The  name  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth  was  on  every  lip. 
Rumor  had  run  far  and  wide  with  the  recent  events 
of  his  career.  It  was  said  that  he  was  coming  into 
Jerusalem  at  the  head  of  phalanxes ;  that  he  was 
prepared  to  take  the  city  by  some  adroit  feint  or 
solid  blow ;  that  he  was  ready  to  defy  Rome,  to  head 
a  successful  insurrection,  and  to  capture  the  throne. 
It  was  no  longer  a  secret  that  the  Sanliedrin  had  in- 
dicted him,  and  that  this  condemned  heretic  would 
not  fly.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  faced  his  fate 
deliberately,  and  had  been  seen  within  two  miles  of 
the  capital.  Crisis  was  in  the  air.  All  the  world 
hurried  to  be  present  at  the  climax.  Crowds  poured 
out  into  Bethany  to  obtain  a  sight  of  the  great 
offender. 

But  in  Bethany  he  was  loved  and  trusted,  and 
Bethany  met  the  general  agitation  by  a  feast  whei-eat 
he  was  the  guest  of  honor.  It  was  a  Sabbath  feast, 
for  he  had  arrived  on  Friday  evening.  Although 


304  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

the  supper  was  held  in  a  private  house,  it  partook  of 
a  public  character. 

His  personal  friends,  the  most  distinguished  citi- 
zens in  the  village,  were  prominent  in  the  entertain- 
ment. Living  Lazarus  himself,  the  startling  object 
of  every  gaze,  was  present. 

Martha's  housewifely  genius  was  lavished  upon 
the  occasion.  She  meant  to  make  this  a  splendid 
affair.  True,  Lazarus  was  alive  and  the  Rabbi  had 
come,  but  supper  must  be  properly  served  neverthe- 
less. Martha  was  very  busy. 

But  Mary  had  slipped  away  out  of  sight,  no  one 
knew  why ;  and  it  was  a  general  surprise  when  she 
was  discovered  in  the  attitude  of  worship  at  the 
Rabbi's  feet.  A  precious  perfume  swiftly  filled 
the  dining-hall,  and  it  was  seen  that  Mary  had 
broken  a  box  of  spikenard  and  was  anointing  Jesus 
with  the  costly  tribute. 

The  treasurer  of  the  twelve  —  he  whose  name  has 
become  the  synonym  of  infamy  —  spoke  up  curtly 
with  caustic  reproach  : 

"  This  spikenard  was  worth  nearly  nine  pounds. 
Why  was  it  not  sold  and  the  proceeds  given  to 
charity?" 

Strictly,  there  was  not  much  force  in  this  charge 
of  extravagance,  for  fifty  dollars  would  have  been 
a  small  price  at  Rome  for  an  alabastron  of  Indian 
nard.  But  Judas  had  the  adroitness  of  an  unde- 
tected peculator.  He  set  up  pseudo-philanthropic 
standards,  and  recalled  the  general  poverty.  It  was 
well  known  that  two  hundred  dinars  (about  thirty 
dollars)  could  be  made  to  provide  bread  for  five 


INTO  JERUSALEM  305 

thousand  families,  and  that  one  dinar  made  the 
wages  of  a  day-laborer. 

"  This  vast  sum  should  have  been  given  to  the 
poor,"  urged  the  treasurer  severely. 

The  eyes  of  Jesus  softly  sought  those  of  Mary. 
He  smiled  gravely. 

Mary  glanced  from  him  to  her  brother,  then  looked 
back  at  the  Rabbi.  Her  heart  was  so  full  of  adora- 
tion that  she  could  not  have  spoken  a  word.  Laza- 
rus watched  the  two  in  the  sacred  silence  which  now 
so  often  enveloped  him.  He  made  no  effort  to  enter 
into  the  scene. 

Slowly  raising  one  white,  tremulous  finger,  Mary 
pointed  at  her  brother  solemnly,  and  sank  upon  her 
knees  at  the  feet  of  Jesus.  There  she  veiled  her  face. 
The  eyes  of  the  guests  filled. 

A  fragment  of  the  broken  alabastron  rolled  in  the 
direction  of  Judas,  who  observed  it  uncomfortably. 

Jesus  turned  his  head.  The  brilliant  dining-hall 
floated  before  his  eyes.  His  breath  halted  for  an 
instant.  He  glanced  at  his  feet,  from  which  Mary 
was  tenderly  wiping  the  scented  ointment.  Almost 
imperceptibly  he  started,  as  one  does  who  sees  some- 
thing painful  which  is  unnoticed  by  others.  .  .  .  Was 
that  blood  ?  What  stabbed  —  what  hurt  him  so  ? 

A  burning  tear,  a  single  one,  had  fallen  upon  his 
foot  from  Mary's  lowered  lashes. 

"  Let  her  alone,"  said  Jesus,  not  with  unstsady 
lip  ;  "  she  has  done  this  for  my  burial." 

Now  he  regarded  his  treasurer  with  a  firm  eye  ;  it 
gave  out  no  irritation,  no  resentment.  Jesus  spoke 
gently. 


306  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

In  a  few  poignant  words  he  suggested  that  charity 
was  never  without  its  opportunities  and  its  objects. 

"  But  me  ye  will  not  have  always."  Then  his 
wistful  voice  rose  into  the  ring  of  prophecy  : 

"  I  tell  you  wherever  this  Gospel  shall  be  preached, 
this  thing  that  she  has  done  for  me  shall  be  spoken. 
It  shall  be  a  memorial  of  her  throughout  the  world." 

It  had  gone  abroad  that  the  Nazarene  had  now  in 
deed  and  truth  come  to  the  front  of  his  revolution, 
and  that  he  was  about  to  make  his  entrance  into 
Jerusalem  in  the  triumph  and  splendor  which  the 
people  love  to  see  wasted  about  their  heroes,  when, 
springing  from  the  humblest  to  the  highest  rank,  the 
strong  will  and  the  superior  soul  accept  the  statiqn 
that  they  have  created  for  themselves. 

The  man  and  the  moment  had  met.  It  was  said 
that  Jesus  had  at  last  cast  away  his  unaccountable 
reluctance  to  filling  his  true  position.  It  was  said 
that  he  was  done  with  all  those  qualms  and  pecu- 
liarities which  had  prevented  him  from  taking  the 
natural  advantage  of  his  popularity.  It  was  known 
that  the  indictment  against  his  life,  the  enmity  of 
the  church  and  the  state,  had  produced  no  effect 
upon  him.  Nothing  checked  his  purpose.  Nothing 
modified  his  courage  or  his  independence.  He  had 
boldly  left  his  shelter  at  Bethany.  He  was  coming 
down  the  Mount  of  Olives.  He  was  advancing 
towards  Jerusalem.  Intense  excitement  pervaded 
the  capital.  Roman  officer  and  Hebrew  ecclesiastic 
were  nigh  to  love  each  other  for  the  first  time  in 
their  common  hatred  of  the  Nazarene.  The  Sanhe- 
drin  were  stupefied.  The  government,  though  scorn- 
ful of  the  rustics,  was  perplexed. 


INTO  JERUSALEM  307 

It  seemed  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  capture 
this  agitator  now. 

But  in  fact  it  had  never  been  more  inexpedient 
to  do  so.  Whence  had  his  friends  sprung  ?  The 
earth,  the  very  air,  seemed  to  have  created  them. 
Who  would  have  believed  that  this  hunted  heretic 
had  such  a  following  ?  Unpopular  ?  Why,  it  was 
as  if  the  whole  world  had  wings  and  flew  to  him.  It 
was  too  true  that  Jerusalem  hated  him  with  deadly 
persistence.  But  Jerusalem  was  under  the  restraints 
which  control  a  host.  Her  streets  overflowed  with 
pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  Palestine,  and  with  visitors 
from  the  East.  This  multitude  of  strangers,  famil- 
iar only  with  the  main  facts  in  the  life  of  the  Naza- 
rene,  and  unembarrassed  by  local  dissensions,  were 
quivering  with  cordial  interest  in  him.  His  direst 
foe  dared  not  strike  out  till  it  was  to  be  seen  which 
way  the  currents  would  set. 

From  her  Temple  to  her  gates,  Jerusalem  watched 
for  him. 

Who  knew  what  secret  service  had  been  planning 
the  coup  of  this  brilliant  day?  What  unknown 
resources  had  the  carpenter  commanded  ?  What 
unestimated  forces  could  thrust  over  the  talith  of 
the  Rabbi  the  purple  of  the  King  ?  What  legions 
were  at  his  back?  What  splendors  glittered  before 
him  ?  What  mounted  guardsmen,  what  shining 
mail,  what  serried  edges  of  spears,  blazed  around 
him?  On  a  caparisoned  charger  he  was  mounted 
proudly.  His  war-horse  already  scented  blood. 
Magnificent  in  attire,  imperious  in  carriage,  he  was 
coming  on  to  capture  the  city.  His  long  reserve,  his 


308  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

false  humility,  had  tossed  off  its  mask.  The  true 
force  of  this  remarkable  man  had  now  expressed 
itself.  To  make  himself  Dictator,  to  become  King 
of  the  nation,  was  clearly  his  intention.  The  peo- 
ple seemed  to  be  at  his  feet.  What  would  be  the 
consequence  ? 

The  unrest  deepened  in  the  capital.  The  officers 
of  Kome  could  not  deny  that  they  shared  it,  though 
treating  the  matter  with  well-bred  indifference.  The 
Jewish  Church  sent  her  delegates  into  the  crowd 
with  orders  to  report  what  was  to  be  seen.  Hurried 
councils  and  secret  threats  and  plots  muttered  in 
Temple  and  palace. 

The  mob  rushed  on.  The  jam  thickened.  The 
uproar  increased.  The  Nazarene  was  said  to  have 
descended  the  mountain,  to  be  crossing  the  valley,  to 
be  climbing  the  sacred  hills  of  Zion.  In  an  hour  — 
in  minutes  —  he  would  be  in  sight.  He  and  his 
retinue  were  coming  up  rapidly,  splendidly.  In  a 
moment —  Ah,  there  ! 

The  cries  of  the  multitude  rose  to  the  heavens. 
For  a  space,  one  could  neither  hear  nor  see.  A  craze 
to  witness  the  gorgeous  spectacle  seized  the  quietest 
man  in  the  crowd.  A  kind  of  glorious  madness  set 
in.  Who  would  have  believed  that  this  country 
Rabbi  could  have  commanded  such  a  demonstration? 

Ah,  behold!  at  last!  That  is  he.  Here  is  the 
heretic.  See  the  madman.  Look  at  the  Sabbath- 
breaker,  the  blasphemer,  the  excommunicated  Rabbi. 
There  is  the  revolutionist,  the  pretender.  .  .  .  Rub 
the  eyes  well.  Look  again.  Doubt  your  senses,  but 
look  once  more. 


INTO  JERUSALEM  309 

The  day  was  quiet  and  warm.  Spring  sang  out- 
side of  the  city.  The  sky  was  a  pallid,  pure  color. 
All  the  people  were  in  their  Passover  clothes.  Festal 
bands  were  coming  up  everywhere,  and  these  from 
without  and  those  others,  the  throng  from  within  the 
capital,  met  in  a  mass. 

In  the  centre  of  it  was  a  plain  man.  He  rode  a 
young  animal  whose  neck  had  never  before  known 
the  bridle,  —  the  colt  of  an  ass,  which,  it  was  said, 
had  been  mysteriously  found,  or  strangely  offered 
to  his  service.  No  trappings,  no  tricks  of  effect, 
deviated  from  the  simplicity  of  his  mount.  No  steed 
of  war  bore  him  on  his  errand  of  peace.  He  had  no 
arms  and  no  armor.  There  was  no  retinue.  Not  a 
guardsman  lifted  a  spear-tip  to  protect  this  defenseless 
man.  His  courtiers  were  a  motley  group,  fishermen 
and  common  folk :  they  walked  behind  him  sturdily ; 
they  had  strong,  serious  faces,  like  those  of  men 
whose  characters  had  been  tried  and  were  capable  of 
further  test ;  their  garments  were  poor ;  a  few  women 
were  among  the  lot,  modest  and  with  thoughtful  ex- 
pressions. When  one  came  to  examine  the  Nazarene 
himself  —  oh,  amazement !  He  was  but  the  simplest, 
the  gentlest  of  men.  Pretender?  Nay,  the  most 
unpretending  hero  who  ever  showed  himself  at  the 
front  of  a  national  crisis.  He  was  clad  in  his  ordi- 
nary dress,  the  hyacinth-colored  talith  of  the  Rabbi. 
The  blue  of  his  robe  and  the  tint  of  the  sky  were 
felt  to  harmonize  without  the  reflection  that  they 
did  so.  His  head  was  bare.  It  wore  no  crown  but 
the  touch  of  the  Passover  sunlight. 

His  nervous  hand  held  no  sceptre.    Some  one  came 


310  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

up  as  he  passed  through  the  suburban  gardens,  and 
reverently  offered  him  a  spray  of  a  palni-branch ;  he 
took  it  appreciatively. 

Palms  were  everywhere.  The  trees  were  stripped 
of  their  branches.  Men  and  women  tore  them  and 
flung  them.  A  green  carpet  fell  at  the  feet  of  Jesus, 
and  he  rode  over  it.  Hosannas  rose  higher.  The 
people  went  mad  with  the  welcome  of  him.  They 
cast  off  their  cloaks  and  spread  them  in  his  way. 
He  rode  on  as  if  he  had  been  riding  over  velvet  and 
treading  upon  pearls. 

Now  came  a  fresh  outburst  of  voices  and  of  warm- 
hearted words : 

"  Blessed  be  our  King !  " 

"  Peace  in  Heaven  !  " 

"  Glory  in  the  Highest !  Praise  God  for  His 
mighty  works  !  Blessed  be  Jesus  our  King !  " 

It  was  afterwards  said  that  the  most  loving  of  these 
outcries  came  from  the  long-sick  whom  the  healer  had 
cured;  and  some  of  them  from  the  sick  of  sin  to 
whom  he  had  given  the  health  of  purity ;  and  some 
from  the  bereaved  to  whom  he  had  restored  the  dying 
or  the  dead ;  that  especially  the  very  poor,  and  the 
altogether  neglected,  and  the  heart-broken  whom  he 
only  had  ever  tried  to  comfort,  and  persons  of  no 
consequence  whom  only  he  had  ever  remembered, 
were  in  his  retinue  that  day.  These  mingled  their 
hosannas  with  the  plaudits  of  the  stranger  pilgrims 
who  had  come  out  of  the  city.  It  was  said,  indeed, 
that  Jesus  was  borne  into  the  capital  on  the  love  of 
those  who  knew  him  best,  and  the  trust  of  those  who 
knew  him  least. 


INTO  JERUSALEM  811 

But  as  he  rode  along,  it  was  noticed  that  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  Jerusalem.  The  stately  city,  hin- 
dered by  Olivet,  visible  only  at  two  or  three  points 
of  the  journey,  now  rose  haughtily  before  him, 
terrace  upon  terrace,  straight  from  the  Valley  of 
Kedron,  as  if  from  an  abyss.  From  the  Palace  of 
the  Maccabees  and  that  of  the  High-priest  to  the 
towers  and  gardens  of  Herod,  Jerusalem  shot  up 
glittering.  Her  architecture  had  a  cold  look.  Some- 
thing about  it  seemed  to  smile  cruelly. 

The  countenance  of  Jesus  melted  and  broke. 
Those  nearest  him  heard  murmured  words,  —  one 
involuntary  cry : 

"  Ah,  Jerusalem  !  If  thou  hadst  known  "  —  Then 
he  commanded  himself  and  rode  on.  His  face  was 
wet.  Something  inexpressible  on  it  wrung  the  heart 
to  see.  But  his  demeanor  was  high,  and  so  quiet 
that  those  whose  hosannas  had  rung  the  loudest 
began  to  fall  silent,  one  by  one.  A  sudden  hush 
smote  the  vociferating  throng. 

In  a  silence  which  no  man  could  understand, 
either  in  himself  or  in  another,  Jesus,  the  prophet  of 
Nazareth  in  Galilee,  passed  through  the  Gate  Shusan 
and  entered  the  royal  city. 

Thus  the  great  democrat,  traveling  like  a  peasant, 
assuming  and  asserting  nothing,  avoiding  lawlessness, 
spurning  display,  humble  and  gentle,  followed  and 
blessed  by  the  poor,  and  loved  by  the  unhappy, 
treated  the  practical  chance  of  political  power. 

Thus  he  put  aside  the  opportunity  of  his  life  and 
of  his  age. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN   THE   TEMPLE  ^ 

WITHOUT  a  symptom  of  fear  the  indicted  man 
went  straight  into  the  Temple  and  remained  there 
for  a  while.  His  manner  was  perfectly  self-possessed, 
and  he  preserved  a  noticeable  silence,  making  no 
public  address  that  day  to  the  turbulent  people. 
Sheer  amazement  at  his  courage  held  the  hands  of 
the  law  back  from  him.  Unmolested  as  he  came,  he 
returned  that  night  to  Bethany  and  to  his  friends. 

There  they  gave  him  such  solace  as  they  could. 
It  was  little  enough.  His  demeanor  forbade  intru- 
sion. The  very  air  that  he  breathed  seemed  sur- 
charged with  unknown  tragedy.  He  was  still  cheer- 
ful, but  the  lines  on  his  face  grew  tense.  To  the 
loyalty  of  the  twelve  the  three  at  Bethany  added 
an  eager  devotion,  and  two  of  these  a  subtler  com- 
prehension. The  solemn  reticence  of  Lazarus,  the 
watchful  tenderness  of  Mary,  protected  Jesus  from 
idle  talk.  His  puzzled  disciples  would  imitate  this 
reserve,  this  calm. 

Here  for  a  space  he  felt  that  he  was  so  loved  that 
it  mattered  less  whether  he  were  understood  or  not. 
He  tried  for  the  moment  to  throw  off  his  intolerable 
burden.  Love  and  life  seemed  to  be  of  necessity 
one  force  united  to  demolish  the  fact  of  death. 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  313 

Quiet  affection,  home,  peace,  temporary  respite  from 
trouble,  wrought  upon  him  something  of  the  incredu- 
lousness  of  pain  and  mortality  which  it  is  their  na- 
ture to  arouse  in  us  all.  The  images  of  his  torment 
retreated.  That  night  the  overstrained  man  knew 
the  bliss  of  a  little  sleep.  He  needed  to,  for  it  was 
one  of  the  last  when  rest  was  possible,  either  by  the 
friction  of  events,  or  from  the  condition  of  his  own 
brain  and  nerves.  He  awaked  to  thank  God  that 
any  had  been  permitted  him. 

But  in  the  morning  the  consciousness  of  everything 
returned.  His  true  position  was  not  to  be  ignored. 
He  faced  it  at  once,  and  went  directly  into  the  capital. 
He  acted  like  one  who  was  more  fearful  of  seeming 
to  fly  from  danger  than  of  danger  itself.  He  was  as 
a  man  moving  upon  a  terrible  errand  whose  object 
might  be  defeated  if  he  deviated  by  a  thought's 
breadth  from  a  certain  course. 

Those  most  in  his  confidence  could  not  tell  how 
definite  his  impressions  were  becoming  of  the  man- 
ner or  the  moment  of  his  fate.  Did  he  go  into 
Jerusalem  each  day  knowing  or  unknowing  whether 
it  would  be  his  last?  Could  he  or  could  he  not 
yet  perceive  precisely  whence  the  blow  would  fall, 
or  who  would  strike  it? 

The  group  at  Bethany  held  the  breath,  and  choked 
the  sobs,  and  adored  him  the  more  because  they 
could  not  help  knowing  that  but  for  them  he  might 
not  have  been  in  the  strait  that  he  was. 

For  this  thing  was  true,  and  time  has  confirmed 
the  fact.  But  for  Lazarus,  the  story  of  Jesus  of 
Nazareth  might  have  been  a  different  one  to  tell. 


314  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Loyalty  to  friendship,  sympathy  with  sorrow,  —  the 
tenderest,  the  greatest  deed  of  his  life,  directly 
placed  it  in  the  final  peril. 

The  popular  feeling  aroused  by  the  wonder 
wrought  at  Bethany  did  not  decline.  The  Sanhe- 
drin  became  very  much  afraid  of  it.  "  The  world 
has  gone  after  him,"  said  Pharisee  to  Pharisee. 

Unconsciously  (for  it  would  have  broken  her 
heart  to  know  it),  Mary,  the  gentlest,  the  most  lov- 
ing of  women,  had  herself  added  a  mesh  to  the  net 
which  Bethany  was  destined  to  weave  around  him. 
The  Indian  nard  lavished  upon  his  feet  served  to 
mark  the  steps  by  which  he  was  to  be  tracked  and 
trapped.  For  this  little  incident  had  an  unusual 
effect  upon  a  low  mind.  It  took  disproportionate 
hold  of  the  thoughts  of  Judas.  The  petty  peculator 
had  missed  the  opportunity  to  defraud  on  a  large 
scale.  He  resented  the  loss  of  wealth  which  had 
never  been,  but  might  so  easily  have  been,  his. 
Then  he  was  irritated  by  the  social  embarrassment 
of  the  Sabbath  supper  at  Bethany.  The  gentle 
reproof  of  Jesus  had  rankled. 

Out  of  any  twelve  picked  men  chosen  for  an  im- 
portant purpose,  there  is  more  than  apt  to  be  at 
least  one  failure.  The  treasurer  of  the  society  of 
Jesus  had  become  that  one.  Judas  had  started  in 
honestly  enough.  To  begin  with,  he  thought  he 
loved  his  Rabbi,  but  the  mercenary  acid  was  in  his 
nature.  Dishonor  had  eaten  its  way  by  unnoticed 
degrees.  He  had  deteriorated  under  the  commission 
and  concealment  of  small  pecuniary  irregularities. 

Judas,  the  only  Judean  of  the  twelve,  had  been 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  315 

an  ambitions  man  as  well.  He  counted  upon  politi- 
cal preferment  when  the  Nazarene  should  come  to 
the  throne  ;  he  had  relied  more  upon  this  than  had 
one  or  two  others  of  the  group  who  had  said  more 
about  it.  He  hid  his  expectations,  but  fondled  them 
accordingly.  His  present  position  gave  him  treach- 
erous hopes.  He  looked  to  nothing  less  than  to  be 
Treasurer  of  State  at  Jerusalem,  perhaps  even  at 
Rome.  He  was  bitterly  disappointed  at  the  turn 
which  the  affairs  of  Jesus  were  taking.  Instead 
of  capturing  a  throne,  the  misguided  revolutionist 
seemed  to  be  walking  straight  into  a  Roman  dun- 
geon. Judas  was  displeased  with  the  whole  situa- 
tion. It  began  to  occur  to  him  that  the  disciples 
had  a  case  against  their  Rabbi.  It  struck  him  that 
he  had  not  been  personally  well  treated. 

Judas  was  not  a  brave  man.  He  had  the  timidity 
produced  by  undetected  dishonor.  He  now  began 
to  dwell  upon  the  risks  of  his  position.  What 
would  become  of  the  followers  of  the  Nazarene  in 
the  event  of  Ms  downfall  ?  He  remembered  the  fiat 
of  excommunication  —  most  dreadful  of  all  things 
to  a  Jewish  mind  —  already  extended  to  include  all 
persons  who  admitted  the  claims  of  this  Messiah. 
There  had  been  other  inessiahs.  There  might  be 
others  still.  Was  it  possible,  after  all,  that  his  Lord 
was  a  pretender  ?  How  madly  had  he  thrown  away 
his  chances !  This  descendant  of  David,  this  heir 
to  the  Theocracy,  had  entered  Jerusalem  without 
a  claim. 

The  thoughts  of  Judas  began  to  coarsen  fast. 
Shapes  of  monstrous  ideas  groveling,  crawled  around 


316  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

him.  He  tried  to  escape  them  at  first.  He  called 
upon  his  early  ideals,  his  young  trust  and  affection. 
But  his  lost  integrity  did  not  respond.  His  sense 
of  honor  protested  feebly  for  a  little,  but  it  had 
hardly  life  enough  left  in  it  to  articulate.  One  day 
he  put  out  his  hesitating  hand  and  choked  it. 

He  had  gone  away  from  the  others  to  think  this 
thing  out  by  himself.  In  a  moment  it  was  suddenly 
plain  to  him.  Now  he  knew  what  he  should  do. 
He  did  actually  stretch  his  grasping  hand  into  the 
hot  air,  and  bring  the  fingers  together  as  if  he  were 
strangling  some  small,  living  creature.  His  face 
had  grown  old  when  he  rose  and  came  back  to  the 
side  of  his  Rabbi.  It  was  withered ;  it  looked  like 
the  face  of  a  corpse.  For  the  highest  in  us  is  the 
vitality  of  us,  and,  in  order  to  kill  his  honor,  a 
man  must  kill  himself.  From  that  moment  Judas 
moved  about  the  living  world  like  a  dead  man.  He 
was  done  with  it,  and  it  with  him.  He  made  a  few 
attempts,  in  which  there  was  something  to  pity,  to 
contend  with  his  own  condition.  But  the  laws  of 
moral  corruption  are  as  inexorable  as  those  of  phy- 
sical decay.  There  is  such  a  thing  on  this  warm 
earth  as  a  dead  soul. 

On  Monday  morning  Jesus  seemed  restless,  but 
his  wan  face  was  set  with  resolve.  He  was  walking 
rapidly  into  the  city,  when  he  suddenly  turned  very 
faint.  His  broken  night,  part  of  it  passed  in  the 
woods  on  the  Mount  of  Olives,  had  poorly  prepared 
him  for  the  day's  strain.  He  tried  to  find  some 
fruit  by  the  wayside,  selecting  a  fig-tree,  on  which  it 
seemed  that  some  of  last  season's  fruit  might  yet  be 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  317 

hanging  unobserved.  But  none  was  to  be  found,  and 
with  a  momentary  assumption  of  the  royal  manner 
which  he  sometimes  wore,  rebuking  the  tree  (as  he 
might  have  rebuked  the  faithless,  fruitless  city  be- 
fore him  for  its  disregard  of  his  nature  and  his 
needs),  he  went  on. 

The  twelve  wondered  at  this  incident.  The  Rabbi 
was  never  impatient  with  little  annoyances ;  he 
never  scolded ;  this  must  have  been  a  parable ; 
but  what  ?  The  fishermen  walked  behind  him  into 
Jerusalem  puzzled,  always  puzzled.  That  Passover 
week  was  a  dense  and  terrible  darkness  through 
which  they  beat  about  blindly,  like  birds  caught  in 
the  clouds  of  a  tempest.  All  they  understood  was 
that  they  loved  their  Lord,  —  their  sad  Lord,  who 
was  not  going  to  be  King,  after  all.  The  whole 
world  was  turning  against  him :  he  needed  them ;  he 
had  never  needed  them  so  much.  They  clung  to 
him  lovingly,  but  in  their  hearts  these  simple  men 
were  terrified  at  the  position  in  which  they  found 
themselves. 

Jesus  arrived  in  the  Temple  at  an  early  hour. 
Here  he  found  the  very  same  abuses  which  he  had 
tried  in  vain  to  reform  at  the  outset  of  his  ministry. 
In  the  Court  of  the  Gentiles  the  shops  were  full. 
Wine,  oil,  fruit,  doves,  were  selling  rapidly.  Here 
were  the  brokers  vociferating,  precisely  as  they  did 
three  years  ago,  when  he  had  lashed  them  out.  The 
old  wrongs  were  going  on  in  the  same  old  way.  He 
felt  the  disappointment  which  any  public  teacher 
feels,  in  returning  to  the  scene  of  a  former  effort,  to 
find  that  everything  that  he  has  done  to  destroy 


318  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

an  error  is  apparently  thrown  away.  He  looked 
about  him  for  a  while  in  bitter  silence.  Almost 
forgetting  for  the  moment  that  he  was  approaching 
the  end,  and  was  not  still  at  the  beginning  of  his 
career,  he  began  enthusiastically  to  repeat  his  wasted 
experiment  to  purify  the  holy  place. 

No  whip  was  needed  this  time  to  scatter  the  of- 
fenders. The  authoritative  force  and  influence  of 
Jesus  had  greatly  increased.  His  voice  was  a  lash. 
It  struck  and  stung.  The  porters  carrying  unlaw- 
ful loads  by  a  short  cut  across  the  Temple  to  save 
steps,  the  brokers,  the  merchants,  all  ihs  unwhole- 
some pack  ran  scattering  before  the  command  which 
sprang  from  his  lips. 

Among  the  bedlam  of  noises,  the  bleating  of 
lambs,  the  flutterings  of  frightened  doves,  the  curses 
of  the  brokers,  he  stood,  mournfully  smiling.  This 
excommunicated  man  ended  his  public  career  as  he 
had  begun  it,  by  an  act  of  passionate  devotion  to  the 
honor  and  the  purity  of  his  church.  Not  to  conform 
to  the  false  because  it  was  the  ecclesiastical,  but  to 
protect  the  true  because  it  was  sacred,  was  his  last 
as  it  had  been  his  first  devout  and  fearless  care. 

Attracted  by  the  commotion  of  the  scene,  and 
trusting  to  the  reputation  for  human  mercy  which 
always  followed  the  Nazarene  as  if  it  had  been  white 
fire  raying  about  his  head,  the  beggars  and  decrepit 
folk  from  without  the  gates  of  the  Temple  began  to 
clamor  for  him.  As  if  to  show  what  the  religious 
idea  really  meant  to  him,  Jesus  turned  quickly  from 
the  desecrated  Temple  courts  to  these  miserable 
people. 


IN   THE  TEMPLE  319 

Now,  indeed,  the  mournfulness  went  out  of  his 
look,  and  for  the  moment  his  own  high  joyousness 
flashed  back  to  it.  His  instinctive  happiness  in 
relieving  suffering  could  not  be  repressed.  They 
crawled  to  him,  —  the  crippled,  the  neglected  sick, 
the  loathsome,  and  the  blind  ;  and  for  one  hour  of 
eager  gladness  he  gave  himself  to  them.  He  healed 
with  a  dazzling  swiftness  never  seen  in  his  touch  be- 
fore ;  he  comforted  with  a  tenderness  which  might 
have  melted  the  very  stones  in  the  Temple  pave- 
ment beneath  his  unsandaled  feet.  —  What  a  smile! 
It  was  soft  fire  from  heaven  itself.  The  artist  who 
could  have  painted  him  as  he  looked  then  would 
have  scorned  the  aureola.  Jesus  needed  none  but 
the  light  of  his  lips  and  eyes. 

Now  he  had  never  cured  any  of  his  patients  in  the 
Temple  before,  and  the  scene  aroused  an  awed  atten- 
tion. Many  crowded  in  to  hear  and  to  see,  and  the 
physical  discomfort  of  the  press  was  as  great  as  the 
moral  irritation  produced  by  the  healer's  success. 
The  priests  looked  on  darkly.  Pharisees  and  Sad- 
ducees  and  Herodians  whispered  with  sullen  dis- 
pleasure. 

Nothing  which  this  patient,  gentle  man  could  do 
was  right,  —  his  noblest  acts  most  wrong  of  all. 
The  ecclesiastical  officers  were  the  more  angered  be- 
cause he  gave  them  so  little  ground  of  legal  offense, 
and  they  watched  him  narrowly  with  a  helpless  rage. 
The  spectators  looked  at  the  priests,  and  many,  who 
had  begun  to  shout  for  Jesus  affectionately,  were 
alarmed  and  grew  cowardly  quiet. 

But  it  happened  that  the  chorister  boys  in  the 


320  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Temple,  the  sons  of  the  Levite  priests,  had  come  out 
to  see  the  sight,  and  were  not  as  quick  as  their  elders 
to  catch  the  idea  that  the  tide,  on  whose  brilliant 
flow  the  Nazarene  had  entered  the  city  yesterday, 
had  already  begun  to  ebb. 

These  boys  came  out,  in  their  little  consecrated 
robes,  and  clustered  around  the  Rabbi.  Some  put 
up  their  hands  and  played  with  his  talith.  One  or 
two  leaned  against  him  with  a  graceful  attitude,  half 
nestling,  half  aloof,  prettily  independent  of  too  much 
show  of  emotion,  as  a  growing  boy  is.  He  who 
loved  children  so  heartily  stopped  to  chat  with  the 
boys,  and  to  welcome  them  ;  for  he  was  gratified  by 
their  affectionate  attention.  Then  the  boys,  remem- 
bering how  all  the  world  had  cried  after  him  the 
day  before,  took  up  the  words  that  they  recalled  most 
easily,  and  began  to  shout  in  chorus,  as  they  were 
trained  to  sing,  rhythmically : 

"  Hosanna !     Hosanna ! 
To  the  Son  of  David 
Hosanna !     Hosanna !  " 

The  chorister  boys  wondered  why  no  one  took  up 
their  tribute  to  the  great  Rabbi,  but  only  a  few 
voices  joined  in  the  children's  hosannas  ;  these  came 
from  some  of  the  poor  folk,  the  cured  patients  of 
the  healer,  who  were  sobbing  and  laughing  for  joy 
in  the  Temple  court.  The  mass  of  the  crowd  was 
ominously  silent.  The  chorister  boys,  puzzled,  put 
the  hem  of  the  Rabbi's  robe  to  their  lips,  and  stoutly 
gathered  closer  to  him,  with  the  battle  instinct  of 
boys  coming  up  in  them,  and  so  repeated  their 
chant : 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  321 

"  Hosanna ! 

See  the  Son  of  David  ! 
Hosanna!  " 

Over  this  beautiful  bulwark  of  youth,  of  trust,  and 
of  song  the  eyes  of  the  heretic  healer  sought  those 
of  the  officers  of  his  church.  For  a  moment  there 
shot  from  his  a  blazing  question,  to  which  their  fall- 
ing lids  had  no  reply.  Then  the  priests  called  the 
chorister  boys  arid  ordered  them  away. 

But  the  Rabbi,  quoting  softly  from  the  Scriptures 
of  the  people,  was  heard  to  say : 

"  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  ...  is  perfected 
praise." 

The  chorister  boys  went  away  unwillingly,  look- 
ing back  with  manful  reluctance  at  the  Nazarene, 
who  watched  them  affectionately  till  the  enfolding 
architecture  of  the  Temple  shut  them  from  his  sight. 
He  was  so  grateful  for  the  trust  of  these  children 
that  it  makes  the  heart  ache  to  think  how  small  a 
measure  of  human  love  did  comfort  him  in  the 
dark  week  when  he  needed  all  that  Palestine  could 
hold. 

He  left  the  Temple  at  once,  and  went  back  to 
Bethany.  A  sudden  reserve  had  wrapped  him. 
He  did  not  talk.  Once  he  raised  his  hands  to  his 
ears  with  an  involuntary  motion,  as  if  he  would  smite 
them  deaf  from  something  that  he  only  heard.  .  .  . 

The  clear,  young  voices  of  the  boys  rang  on  for  a 
little  in  his  brain.  He  heard  the  ideal  youth  of  the 
world's  future  crying  to  him.  It  might  have  loved 
and  honored,  it  might  yet  honor  and  love  him,  —  how 
much,  who  could  tell  ?  Oh,  to  live  and  know !  .  .  . 


322  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Where  were  the  hosannas?  They  had  changed 
to  imprecations.  One  terrible  word  crashed  in 
upon  the  silenced  choral. 

"  Crucify  I "     Who  said  that  ? 

No  one ;  nothing  but  the  inner  voices  of  his  own 
fine  organism,  throbbing  under  laws  which  the 
coarser  being  could  not  formulate  and  never  knew. 

Jesus  collected  himself  and  walked  on  to  Bethany. 
He  spent  a  part  of  the  night  in  the  house  of  his 
friends,  wishing  to  give  them  the  happiness  of 
thinking  that  he  rested;  but  midnight  found  him 
in  the  groves  of  the  mountain.  The  olive-trees 
"were  kind  to  him."  Pacing  among  their  silver 
arches,  kneeling  at  their  roots,  his  figure,  solitary 
and  solemn,  moved  from  restlessness  to  exhaustion 
all  night  long.  Prayer  with  him  had  never  been  an 
easy  reverie ;  rather,  the  truest  application  of  mind 
and  heart.  It  had  always  been  energy.  Now  it 
was  growing  agony.  Dawn  touched  the  brow  of  the 
mountain.  The  sharp,  slender  outline  of  the  high- 
est leaf  on  the  tallest  tree  received  the  glitter,  like 
a  spear.  He  did  not  sleep.  He  had  slept  for  the 
last  time. 

On  Tuesday  he  went  back  persistently  to  the  city. 
His  friends  at  Bethany,  in  anxiety  all  the  more  acute 
because  it  was  so  ignorant,  perceived  that  110  human 
love  could  any  longer  influence  him  to  save  himself. 
It  was  hoped  that  the  arrival  of  his  mother  for  the 
festival  of  the  Passover  might  have  moved  him  to 
take  some  precautions.  But  nothing  made  the  dif- 
ference. He  was  determined  to  dare  the  worst. 

Walking  with  the  twelve,  he  passed  the  fig-tree 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  323 

which  had  refused  him  fruit  yesterday  when  he 
was  faint.  The  quickest  eye  among  the  disciples 
observed  instantly  that  the  tree  was  withering,  and 
exclamations  of  surprise  arose  from  the  group. 
Jesus  took  advantage  of  this  episode  to  utter  some 
of  the  most  remarkable  sayings  ever  propounded  by 
any  teacher  of  mankind.  He  laid  down,  in  a  few 
trenchant  words,  his  theory  of  prayer  ;  burning  it  in 
upon  the  confused  minds  of  his  friends,  as  if  through 
them  he  would  have  branded  it  upon  the  intelligence 
of  the  world.  He  seemed  as  if  he  were  pleading 
with  all  time  to  understand  him. 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  "have  faith  in  God!  ...  Ye 
yourselves  could  do  more  than  this.  .  .  .  Whoso- 
ever shall  not  doubt  in  his  heart,  but  shall  believe 
that  those  things  which  he  saith  shall  come  to  pass, 
.  .  .  shall  have  whatsoever  he  saith :  .  .  .  when  ye 
pray  .  .  .  believe  that  ye  shall  receive  .  .  .  and  ye 
shall  have." 

"But,"  he  added,  qualifying  this  astounding 
assertion  with  the  gravest  warning,  "  when  ye  stand 
praying,  if  ye  have  anything  against  any  one,  forgive ! 
forgive ! "  .  .  . 

He  went  into  the  Temple  without  an  obvious 
tremor.  The  crowd  was  larger  than  yesterday's. 
The  delegates  of  an  enraged  church  were  on  hand  to 
receive  him.  The  day  began  by  an  absorbing  scene. 
Before  he  was  allowed  to  open  his  lips,  the  priests 
and  other  important  ecclesiastical  representatives 
officially  questioned  his  ordination  as  a  Rabbi,  and 
hence  his  right  to  preach  to  the  Hebrew  people. 

The  sleepless  man,  his  brain  on  fire  for  rest,  turned 


324  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

upon  the  polemicists  instantly.  His  mind  showed 
no  signs  of  weariness.  It  worked  with  unerring 
obedience  to  a  celerity  and  adroitness  of  thought 
which  was  confounding.  He  parried  the  onset  of 
his  antagonists  by  a  keen  rejoinder.  Religious  and 
legal  casuistry  show  nothing  finer  of  its  kind. 

"  Assuredly,  I  will  give  you  my  authority.  But 
pray  answer  me  one  question  first.  Whence  did  the 
baptism  of  John  come?  Of  Heaven  or  of  men? 
Answer  me  !  "  he  commanded. 

The  priests  fell  back  and  consulted/  Here  was 
a  dilemma !  To  say  from  Heaven  was  of  course 
to  be  asked,  "  Why,  then,  did  you  not  treat  John's 
system  of  faith  as  if  it  were  sent  from  Heaven?" 
To  reply,  "He  taught  nothing  superior;  he  was  a 
very  ordinary  person,"  was  sure  to  enrage  the  peo- 
ple, who  stolidly  held  to  it  yet  that  the  murdered 
teacher  was  a  prophet. 

*'  Answer  me  !  "  repeated  Jesus. 

An  aged  priest  was  pushed  forward  as  spokesman. 
Candidly  he  said : 

"  Indeed  we  cannot  tell." 

"  Then,"  replied  the  Rabbi,  smiling  quietly, 
"  neither  do  I  tell  you  by  what  authority  I  do  these 
things." 

The  officers  of  the  church  looked  at  each  other 
uncomfortably,  and  openly  gave  up  the  battle  for  the 
time.  Who  would  have  believed  this  rustic  from 
Nazareth  capable  of  such  astuteness  ?  The  country 
Ra"bbi  had  an  intellect  with  which  it  proved  danger- 
ous to  cope.  It  seemed  one  must  study  the  man 
and  his  methods  before  venturing  too  far  with  him 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  325 

in  public  debate.  The  experienced  controversialists 
wavered.  The  priests  ranged  themselves  in  his 
audience  from  very  confusion,  not  liking  to  seem  to 
run  from  him ;  and  now,  having  an  open  field,  Jesus 
cast  every  personal  consideration  behind  him  and 
began  to  speak. 

He  preached  as  if  he  had  never  preached  before, 
and  never  should  again ;  as  indeed  he  never  did. 
He  spoke  most  of  the  day,  and  taught  much  by  the 
parable.  He  was  interrupted  by  several  important 
episodes,  but  preached  steadily  on  between  them. 
Each  sect  had  its  turn  at  him,  in  a  common  endeavor 
to  entangle  the  Rabbi  to  his  own  destruction. 

The  Sadducees  worried  him  for  his  views  on  the 
marriage  relation,  as  it  was  connected  with  a  belief 
in  personal  immortality.  The  Pharisees  maliciously 
waylaid  him  on  the  subject  of  Roman  taxation,  — 
as  for  instance :  If  he  were  in  fact  the  King  of  the 
Theocracy,  could  he  be  subject  to  Caesar?  This 
was  a  skillful  and  dangerous  trap.  Jesus  did  not 
fall  into  it.  This  friend  of  the  people  upheld  the 
law  of  the  land.  He  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
socialistic  mania.  He  has  proved  himself  to  be  the 
greatest  revolutionist  of  all  time,  but  he  was  the 
revolutionist  of  character.  He  did  not  concern 
himself  with  codes.  These,  he  assumed,  would  take 
care  of  themselves.  He  seemed  perfectly  indifferent 
to  them.  He  had  the  burning  conviction  that,  if  his 
moral  creed  were  accepted,  the  abuses  and  oppres- 
sions under  which  the  mass  of  the  world  suffered 
would  i-ight  themselves.  He  held  fast  to  principles, 
and  did  not  waste  himself  in  ways  and  means  of 


326  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

application.  The  simplicity  and  grandeur  of  his 
position  in  this  respect  were  never  so  brilliantly 
apparent  as  on  his  last  appearance  as  a  public 
teacher  in  the  Temple  of  his  nation.  His  wiliest 
adversary  was  silenced  for  the  moment  by  very 
admiration  of  him. 

But  theological  controversy  had  not  done  with 
him.  All  day  the  leading  schools  of  the  church 
contended  over  the  calm  and  gentle  preacher,  who 
exhibited  suuh  unexpected  intellectual  supremacy 
that  it  put  their  best  men  on  their  mettle  to  contest 
with  him.  An  influential  lawyer,  who  tried  to  en- 
tangle him  into  some  dangerous  public  expression 
about  the  Hebrew  statutes,  received  an  astonishing 
reply.  It  has  since  become  the  basis  of  theoretical 
sociology,  and  of  the  practical  civilization  of  the 
world.  It  was  the  superlative  of  the  day's  effort, 
and  had  such  an  effect  upon  the  trained  debaters 
who  heard  it  that  it  was  naively  said : 

"After  that,  no  man  durst  ask  him  any  ques- 
tions." 

Now  he  himself  turned  questioner  :  "  What  think 
ye  of  the  Christ  ?  "  he  suddenly  asked.  But  the  con- 
fused controversialists  looked  feebly  at  the  com- 
manding face  and  figure  of  the  preacher.  No  satis- 
factory reply  was  forthcoming.  Jesus  took  the 
occasion  subtly  to  intimate  his  celestial  claims,  but 
he  did  not  dwell  on  them,  and  turned  to  another 
subject. 

The  plain  people,  who  heard  him  with  touching 
attention,  were  gathered  about  him.  They  lifted  to 
him  faces  whose  perplexity  seemed  to  approach  him 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  327 

with  a  force  that  lie  found  it  impossible  to  resist. 
They  looked  so  poor,  so  meagre,  so  nearly  starved, 
and  so  wholly  miserable !  Oppression  sat  heavily 
on  their  ignorance  and  helplessness.  He  turned 
to  their  ecclesiastical  officers  and  influential  citizens, 
—  pompous,  sleek,  comfortable  men,  living  on  easy 
incomes,  enjoying  social  distinction,  scorning  people 
of  the  lower  classes,  and  scarcely  aware  that  these 
had  any  rights.  Jesus  seemed  overwhelmed  with 
the  contrast,  and  with  the  thoughts  which  it  started 
in  him.  It  was  as  if  he  took  up  into  his  heart  in 
that  one  moment  all  the  blind  struggles  of  the  down- 
trodden and  ranged  himself  beside  them. 

With  church  and  state  on  his  track,  with  death  at 
his  throat,  Jesus  flung  his  last  challenge  down.  The 
most  terrible  arraignments  of  his  ministry  now  fell 
from  his  merciful  lips.  Without  a  care  for  himself, 
he  scathed  the  very  men  who  had  it  in  their  power 
to  slay  or  to  spare  him,  in  language  which  the 
worms  of  the  earth  would  have  resented. 

"  Woe  unto  you,  Scribes,  Pharisees,  hypocrites,  — 
woe  unto  you !  You  make  long  prayers  and  devour 
the  homes  of  widows.  .  .  .  Lawyers !  you  bind  heavy 
burdens  on  poor  men's  shoulders,  and  will  not  lift 
them  by  a  finger.  .  .  .  Pietists !  you  pay  tithes,  but 
have  neither  judgment  nor  mercy !  Blind  guides  ! 
Full  of  iniquity !  Serpents  !  Generation  of  vipers ! 
Woe  unto  you  !  " 

It  was  his  last  outcry  for  the  "  common  people," 
whom  he  had  always  loved,  whom  he  represented, 
and  for  whom  he  was  willing  to  die.  It  was  his  last 
plea  for  the  purification  of  his  church,  and  for  the 


328  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

integrity  of  the  national  religious  character.  If  he 
had  a  chance  left,  this  arraignment  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal hypocrisy  and  of  social  oppression  would  have 
hurled  it  away.  The  courage  which  it  must  have 
cost  was  something  so  evident  and  so  sublime  that 
his  listeners  were  stunned.  The  attack  was  received 
in  stony  silence,  ominous  to  the  last  degree. 

Jesus  paid  no  attention  to  the  effect  of  his  denun- 
ciation, unless  it  could  be  said  that  he  clinched  it  by 
turning  his  attention  to  a  very  poor  woman  who  just 
then  had  offered  to  the  Temple  treasury  the  smallest 
sum  allowed  by  law.  He  openly  selected  her  contri- 
bution as  the  most  important  of  the  day,  and  passed 
at  once  quietly  to  the  next  incident. 

This  proved  to  be  one  which  was  profoundly  in- 
teresting to  him.  A  delegation  of  Greeks  who  were 
visitors  at  the  national  festival  proffered  a  special 
request  for  an  interview  with  the  distinguished 
Galilean.  Jesus  was  in  the  Court  of  the  Women  at 
that  moment,  a  part  of  the  Temple  wherein  no  for- 
eigner was  allowed ;  and  he  went  out  of  it  to  receive 
the  strangers.  A  brief  but  impressive  conversation 
ensued.  Something  about  these  visitors  appealed 
to  him  strongly.  He  was  sensitive  to  their  breadth 
of  thought  and  finish  of  manner.  Greek  culture 
presented  peculiar  attractiveness  to  an  independent 
Hebrew  mind.  These  foreigners  had  such  sincerity, 
such  ardor  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  they  were  so 
unhampered  by  tradition,  they  were  so  natural,  they 
were  such  winning  men,  that  his  heart  went  out  to 
them.  He  would  have  liked  to  fling  himself  into 
one  mighty  effort  to  illumine  the  undeveloped  spirit- 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  329 

uality  in  this  beauty-loving  people.  He  thought  of 
the  opportunities  of  a  journey  through  Greece  — 
perhaps  to  Rome  itself  —  or  into  the  farther  East. 
It  came  upon  him  with  a  crushing  force  that  the 
world  lay  yet  beyond  his  short,  sad  ministry. 

Galilee  and  Judea  had  refused  him.  Jerusalem 
was  even  now  crouching  for  his  life.  But  Palestine 
was  not  all.  Three  years  were  not  a  lifetime.  The 
end  ?  Nay,  he  was  but  at  the  beginning.  Effort, 
sacrifice,  achievement, — these  might  all  go  on  in 
breath  and  joy.  —  Death  was  not  the  only  way.  .  .  . 
Such  a  vision  whirled  before  him  of  the  possibilities 
of  living  that  he  felt  for  the  moment  swept  away 
by  it.  He  saw  himself  carrying  the  truth  for  which 
he  was  martyr  to  the  end  of  the  known  earth ;  to 
peoples  kinder  to  him  than  his  own  ;  to  strangers 
who  would  listen  and  love  him  and  believe. 

But  this  was  to-day.  There  would  be  to-morrow; 
then  Thursday  —  Friday  — 

His  expression  changed  visibly.  He  parted  from 
the  Greek  strangers  with  emotion.  He  could  have 
wished  that  he  had  not  seen  them.  .  .  . 

Who  spoke  ?  No,  it  was  thunder.  Yes,  again,  who 
spoke  ?  The  voice  came  from  above  the  meek, 
bowed  head  of  the  Nazarene.  Some  said  that  the 
air  of  the  April  day  had  uttered  itself,  but  that  no 
man  could  translate  the  language,  for  it  was  an 
unknown  tongue.  But  there  were  by-standers  having 
fine  ears  who  prostrated  themselves  upon  the  pave- 
ment of  the  Temple  ;  for  they  said  that  they  heard 
words  which  no  one  could  forget,  and  that  these 
gave  awful  credentials  to  the  mysterious  teacher. 


330  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

When  these  reverent  persons  raised  themselves 
from  the  marble  court,  they  saw  the  Nazarene  stand- 
ing rapt  and  listening.  All  the  trouble  had  gone 
out  of  his  face.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  received  a 
reinvigoration  of  life.  He  was  reinspired  of  hope, 
of  peace.  At  that  moment  no  man  dared  address 
him. 

Jesus  had  appeared  in  the  Temple  of  his  people 
for  the  last  time.  Whether  accidentally  or  inten- 
tionally, his  closing  public  address  fell  into  a  thrill- 
ing picture  of  the  final  judgment  of  the  human  soul 
before  the  bar  of  God. 

In  this  discourse  he  assumed  distinctly  for  him- 
self both  royal  and  divine  claims.  In  it  he  gave 
some  startling  definitions  of  character.  What  was 
done  to  the  obscurest  of  miserable  men  was  done 
to  him,  he  boldly  said :  "  /  am  hungry  —  sick  —  in 
prison.  You  feed  and  visit  me." 

Words  like  these  overthrew  every  conception  of 
religious  duty  known  to  his  church.  They  were 
received  in  gloomy  and  pondering  silence.  He  had 
left  the  Temple  and  the  capital  without  much  pub- 
lic demonstration  :  few  voices  huzzaed  ;  none  hosan- 
naed.  He  began  to  feel  his  growing  unpopularity 
as  he  walked  meekly  away. 

But  his  friends,  never  any  too  sensitive  to  his 
moods,  were  blunt  to  his  condition  now.  The  twelve 
began  to  indulge  a  little  national  vanity  at  that 
untimely  moment,  and  to  chat  about  the  grandeur 
of  the  Temple.  They  pointed  out  to  him  the  huge, 
white  blocks,  some  of  them  twenty-four  feet  long, 
which  proudly  supported  the  walls  ;  and  they  dwelt 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  331 

upon  the  glory  and  indestructibility  of  the  build- 
ing. 

"  The  time  is  coming,"  observed  the  Rabbi  quietly, 
"when  there  shall  not  be  left  one  of  these  stones 
upon  another." 

Forty  years  after,  when  the  capital  of  the  dis- 
graced nation  went  down  in  dust  and  flame,  men 
remembered  the  words  spoken  by  this  patriot,  and 
how  —  forgetting  his  own  fate,  and  thinking  only  of 
hers  —  he  had  foretold  in  tears  the  doom  of  the 
city  that  he  loved.  On  his  way  back  to  Bethany  he 
rested  with  his  party  on  the  brow  of  the  Mount  of 
Olives.  There,  Jerusalem  could  be  seen  with  a  cer- 
tain beautiful  insolence  of  bearing ;  pallor  of  marble 
and  glitter  of  gold  ornamented  her  as  if  she  had 
been  a  bride  or  a  queen.  She  seemed  to  return  the 
gaze  of  the  martyr  whom  she  was  hounding  down, 
with  a  chill  intelligence. 

The  twelve,  now  sobered  and  puzzled,  crept  close 
to  him  in  this  quiet  spot,  and  began  in  earnest  to 
ask  him  for  explanations.  What  fate  was  indeed 
before  the  royal  city  ?  What  awaited  himself  ?  Or 
them  ?  What  was  a  fisherman  to  do  with  the  situa- 
tion into  which  his  devotion  to  the  fallen  fortunes  of 
a  defeated  Lord  had  brought  him  ?  What  was  to 
happen  if  they  lost  him  ?  What  did  all  the  para- 
bles and  mysteries  mean  ? 

Then  he  broke  his  reserve,  and  told  them  that  at 
which  their  hearts  stood  still.  They  were  brave  and 
hardy  men.  But  they  began  at  last  to  understand 
that  this  prophet  whom  they  had  served  so  long  was 
the  King  of  sorrows  and  of  failures,  not  of  joys  and 


332  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

of  success ;  and  that  his  officers  were  the  picked 
men  of  suffering,  not  of  pleasure.  It  was  not  power 
which  awaited  them.  It  was  ignominy. 

The  treasurer  of  the  association  listened,  with  the 
rest,  to  these  disturbing  revelations.  He  heard 
them  with  a  sour  dismay.  He  thought  it  indiscreet 
in  his  Lord  to  speak  so  frankly  at  such  a  time,  being, 
as  he  was,  a  practically  defeated  man.  But  Judas 
found  these  intimations  personally  useful.  He  made 
no  remark  upon  them.  His  dark  soul  brooded  upon 
what  he  had  heard  in  sinister  silence. 

The  party  went  on  thoughtfully  to  Bethany.  In 
the  twilight  one  furtive  figure  set  forth  from  the 
villages  unnoticed,  and  fled  along  the  road  back  to 
Jerusalem.  Dark  was  down  when  this  man  re- 
entered  the  capital.  With  a  kind  of  frenzied  hurry, 
as  if  he  feared  that  he  might  wish  to  recall  what  he 
was  doing,  if  he  gave  himself  time  to  think,  he 
dashed  up  the  marble  steps  of  the  palace  of  Caia- 
phas.  At  the  door  he  stood,  in  the  hot  evening,  with 
cold  drops  running  down  his  cowering  body.  Half 
minded  to  fly,  he  went  in.  At  a  whisper  the  ser- 
vants admitted  him,  and  the  silken  curtains  of  the 
reception  hall  dropped  behind  his  shaking  figure. 
Eavesdroppers  were  scattered.  The  High-priest  of 
the  Hebrew  Church  and  the  trusted  officer  of  Jesus 
of  Nazareth  were  together. 

Jesus  came  to  his  friends  at  Bethany  looking 
so  exhausted  that  they  thought  their  hearts  would 
break.  They  begged  him  to  rest  in  his  own  room 
that  night,  for  they  reminded  him  that  he  had 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  333 

preached  all  day  without  sleep.  But  he  refused 
them  gently.  And  while  they  were  yet  pleading 
with  him,  he  departed  from  their  tender  urgency, 
and  went  out  into  the  groves. 

There,  with  the  scalding  brain  and  the  deathly 
faintness  of  vigil,  all  night  he  waked  and  prayed. 
The  mountain  worshiped.  But  the  palace  blushed. 
The  polished  slabs  in  her  walls  would  have  cried  out 
for  horror  if  a  single  movement  in  the  will-power 
of  the  mystical  solitary  on  Olivet  had  given  them 
tongues  wherewith  to  save  him.  But  they  were  as 
mute  as  the  laws  of  nature  made  them. 

Undetected,  undeterred,  Caiaphas  and  his  council 
closed  one  of  the  compacts  which  history  is  ashamed 
to  record,  but  which  the  moral  instinct  of  the  race 
never  suffers  her  to  forget. 

Plainly,  the  crisis  of  the  revolution  has  arrived. 
It  must  be  met  by  any  means,  fair  or  foul.  Never 
mind  the  method.  Rid  the  nation  of  the  Nazarene  ! 

Who  will  put  this  pretender  into  our  hands  when 
he  is  not  protected  by  the  presence  of  the  people,  — 
the  deluded  people,  whose  confidence  we  have  been 
unable  to  wrench  from  him  ? 

Who  will  give  him  over  to  us  in  dark,  in  stealth, 
and  in  dishonor  blacker  than  any  with  which  we 
have  a  mind  to  stain  our  pious  reputations  ? 

Yonder  stands  our  opportunity.  Fortune  flings 
at  our  feet  one  of  his  own  men,  —  a  trusted  con- 
fidant. Incredible  !  But  this  brilliant  luck  is  ours. 
Beckon  the  cringing  figure.  See  to  it  that  he  makes 
his  own  proposition.  Close  with  it  on  any  terms  ! 
Close  with  it  without  an  hour  to  consider  or  to  re- 


334  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

call !  This  is  of  the  deeds  which  are  best  done  with 
the  least  reflection. 

The  High-priest,  cultivated  to  the  point  where 
one  represses  rather  than  expresses  scorn,  made 
some  effort  not  to  draw  back  his  robes  from  contact 
with  the  low  fellow  who  offered  the  person  of  his 
Lord  and  friend  for  betrayal  to  the  law.  Haggling 
with  the  ignorant  man,  the  great  Priest  beat  him 
down,  as  if  they  had  been  petty  tradesmen  bargain- 
ing for  the  sale  of  a  Passover  lamb  in  the  streets. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  was  sold  to  the  National 
Church  —  and  the  price  was  paid  in  silver  from  her 
treasury  —  for  three  pounds  and  fifteen  shillings; 
the  ransom  of  the  lowest  slave. 

On  Wednesday  he  did  not  go  into  the  capital. 
He  passed  the  day  in  Bethany,  shielded  for  a  last 
respite  from  the  worst,  cherished  among  his  friends, 
loved,  and  a  little  understood.  The  eyes  of  Laza- 
rus, the  tenderness  of  Mary,  the  longing  of  John 
the  dear  disciple,  clung  to  him  throughout  the  day. 
On  his  mother's  beautiful  face  age  grew  rapidly. 
He  did  not  look  at  her  often,  —  he  could  not  bear 
it.  It  came  to  be  so  that  he  could  no  longer  bear 
the  presence  of  any  who  loved  him,  for  the  more 
they  loved,  the  harder  it  was ;  and  it  was  at  a  very 
early  hour  that  he  left  them  all  and  went  away 
alone. 

The  group  of  his  friends  stood  in  the  court  of  the 
house  of  Martha  and  watched  him  as  he  walked 
in  the  direction  of  the  olive  woods.  On  his  white 
face  dwelt  the  distance  from  human  sympathy 
which  is  peculiar  to  the  appearance  of  the  sleepless. 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  335 

It  was  a  line  which  no  love  might  cross ;  but  other 
and  awful  barriers  had  now  been  thrown  upon  his 
countenance.  His  own  mother  could  not  have  ven- 
tured even  to  express  her  consciousness  that  these 
existed.  In  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  sound  of 
stifled  sobbing,  he  had  parted  on  this  last  evening 
from  those  who  loved  him  best,  and  resumed  for 
another  night  his  solitary  vigil. 

Once  he  turned,  looking  back,  and  lifted  his 
hands  as  if  he  would  have  blessed  them,  every  one, 
with  that  which  yet  he  might  not  give  them,  and 
as  if  he  called  down  the  love  of  Heaven  on  the 
village  which  held  the  household  that  had  comforted 
him  in  his  most  desolate  hours.  Then  the  gloom 
of  the  trees  received  his  slowly  moving  figure, 
utterly  and  silently,  as  God  received  his  confidence 
that  night. 


CHAPTER  XV 

GETHSEMANE 

IT  was  Thursday  evening.  Jerusalem,  thrilling 
with  the  solemn  excitement  of  the  paschal  supper, 
was  pressed  with  pilgrims  to  her  walls,  and  beyond 
them.  It  was  a  clear  night,  and  the  mellowness  of 
the  sunset,  pouring  over  the  white  Temple,  seemed 
to  overflow  through  the  narrow  streets.  The  vast 
crowd  moved  exultantly,  as  if  it  were  dripping  with 
light.  A  man  carrying  a  pitcher  of  water,  and  walk- 
ing rapidly,  was  touched  lightly  from  behind  upon 
the  shoulder.  Turning,  he  saw  faces  now  familiar 
to  the  people  at  large  as  those  of  two  of  the  twelve 
who  followed  the  Nazarene. 

"  The  Master  desires  your  upper  room,"  was  the 
abrupt  announcement.  "  He  would  take  therein  the 
paschal  supper." 

The  man  with  the  pitcher  assented  to  the  propo- 
sition without  demur ;  it  has  been  said  that  he  was 
the  father  of  one  of  the  friends 1  of  Jesus,  and  in  cor- 
dial sympathy  with  him.  At  all  events,  the  enter- 
tainment committee  of  the  twelve  proceeded,  without 
the  difficulty  which  might  have  been  anticipated 
when  the  roof  which  sheltered  the  Nazarene  would 
be  a  marked  and  endangered  spot,  to  make  the  need- 
1  Mark. 


GETHSEMANE  :VM 

fill  preparations  for  the  great  religious  banquet  of 
the  year.  Since  for  every  reasonable  and  sincere 
observance  of  liis  church  Jesus  had  always  shown  re- 
spect, it  was  like  him  to  give  the  due  to  this  occasion. 
On  this  las!  evening  he  performed,  as  he  had  always 
done,  the  simple  duty  of  the  hour,  precisely  as  if  he 
had  expected  to  live  for  double  thirty  years.  Ecclesi- 
astical legend  has  dotted  the  land  of  Palestine  witli  so 
many  traces  of  the  great  Rabbi's  movements  in  which 
history  can  put  no  faith,  that  a  profound  interest 
attaches  to  tlie  few  localities  which  there  is  any  rea- 
son to  suppose  may  have  been  really  identified  with 
his  experience.  The  house  in  which  he  was  enter- 
tained for  the  last  supper  of  his  life  is  thought  to  be 
one  of  these  few.  It  is  still  to  be  seen,  a  stone  house, 
outside;  the  walls  of  the  existing  city,  and  in  its  time 
stood  so  far  south  of  the  heart  of  the  capital  that  it 
escaped  the  general  ruin. 

It  was  a  comfortable,  in  some  sense  a  stately  house, 
of  a  degree  befitting  the  position  that  Jesus  had  now 
assumed  as  t  he  foremost  figure  of  the  nation.  It  had 
a  large,  upper  room  suitable  for  banqueting,  and 
giving  through  sufficient  windows  a  wide  outlook. 
Couches  surrounded  the  low,  curved  table  on  which 
the  red  wine  ;md  water,  the  bitter  herbs,  the  lamb 
slain  and  blessed  :it  the  Temple  and  roasted  entire, 
were  set  forth  in  paschal  order.  There  was  no  ser- 
vant in  attendance,  nor  did  the  owner  of  the  house 
present  himself  among  the  group  to  whom  he  had 
rented  his  room  of  state.  The  Nazarene  and  his 
twelve  were  alone  and  unobserved. 

It  was  early  evening  when  Jesus  appeared  walk- 


338  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

ing  slowly  from  Olivet,  looking  upwards  at  the  Tem- 
ple, whose  splendid  outline  and  colorings  smoked 
with  the  burning  of  slain  sacrifice.  The  smoke 
coiled  lightly  against  the  unclouded  sky,  and  van- 
ished in  vague  forms  on  the  upper  air,  like  the 
passing  of  a  spirit.  He  watched  it  without  remark. 

Ten  of  the  twelve  were  with  him  ;  they,  too, 
walked  quietly.  They  were  met  by  their  paschal 
committee,  Peter  and  John,  who  had  been  appointed 
to  make  arrangements  for  the  supper.  The  group 
assembled  in  the  spacious  upper  room  of  the  stone 
house,  and  closed  the  doors. 

Jesus  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  table.  He 
had  never  before  held  the  position  of  host  at  the 
solemn  festival  of  his  church,  and  had  not  per- 
sonally offered  sacrifice.  He  thought  of  this  in 
almost  the  same  words  that  had  come  to  him  when 
he  partook  of  his  first  Passover,  he  then  a  boy, 
blinded  by  his  consciousness  of  mystery  and  by  a 
passing  preconsciousness  of  suffering  :  "  I  shall  be 
the  sacrifice." 

That  was  at  the  beginning.  This  —  this  was 
the  end.  He  sank  down  upon  the  cushions  of  the 
couch.  An  attitude  "  of  rest,  of  happiness,  and  of 
liberty "  was  necessary  to  the  paschal  feast ;  the 
tense  muscles  of  his  troubled  figure  battled  with  the 
appearance  of  ease.  He  glanced  at  the  slain  sacri- 
fice, —  poor,  dumb  symbol  of  suffering  no  less  mute 
than  his  own  !  How  power  and  helplessness  met  in 
pain  and  death  !  The  evening  light  struck  straight 
upon  his  face.  He  looked  out  through  the  window 
with  eyes  that  were  not  limited  by  its  proportions. 


GETHSEMANE  339 

The  stone  walls  of  the  house  widened  and  wavered  to 
his  gaze.  No  point  of  compass  seemed  to  restrain 
his  vision.  It  was  as  if  he  looked  fairly  on  Olivet ;  a 
shadow  was  sombrely  moving  up  the  mountain.  Yon- 
der was  unseen  Bethany.  Invisible  Galilee  sat  hidden 
somewhere  in  the  darkening  map.  There  lay  Naz- 
areth, Capernaum,  the  Lake,  home,  youth,  freedom, 
—  the  eager  scenes  of  three  dedicated  years,  crowded 
with  passionate  hope  and  toil,  with  unswerving  be- 
lief that  he  was  walking  God's  way,  that  he  was 
forcing  everything  to  the  wishes  of  his  Father,  —  of 
his  Father  unseen,  unproved,  but  trusted  in  spite  of 
that.  And  now  ?  What  was  the  outcome  of  it  all  ? 

The  color  of  the  evening  entered  the  room  solemnly. 
He  felt  the  peculiar  grip  at  the  heart  that  comes  to 
a  man  who  knows  that  he  is  looking  for  the  last  time 
at  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

He  was  so  absorbed  that  he  had  not  noticed  at 
first  that  there  was  a  disturbance  among  the  twelve. 
Even  on  that  night,  at  that  hour,  they  were  quar- 
reling pettily  over  the  order  of  their  precedence  in 
taking  positions  at  the  supper  table.  Judas  had 
somehow  managed  to  get  himself  into  the  seat  of 
honor,  at  the  left  of  the  Rabbi.  Peter,  seeing  this, 
had  gone  over  to  the  lowest  seat  on  the  opposite 
side.  The  others  were  noisily  arranging  themselves 
on  the  divans  as  they  pleased.  John  was  standing 
irresolute.  Jesus  beckoned  him  to  the  couch  at  his 
own  right  hand.  The  meal  opened  in  discomfort. 

Could  they  not  have  spared  him,  even  then,  this 
last  reminder  how  weak  they  were,  how  full  of  un- 
disciplined nature,  how  deaf  to  the  real  message 


340  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

of  his  life  with  them?  In  three  years  how  little 
they  had  learned  !  He  looked  at  them  with  infinite 
sadness.  They  seemed  to  him  like  children.  He 
spoke  to  them  patiently.  The  meal  proceeded  with 
decorum. 

But  what  was  the  Rabbi  doing  ?  He  had  risen 
from  his  couch  and  laid  aside  his  talith.  Girded 
with  a  towel,  as  a  servant ,  is  who  waits  on  his  supe- 
riors, he  was  moving  about  meekly  with  a  basin  and 
ewer  of  water  in  his  hand  ;  and,  before  a  man  of  them 
could  stay  him,  they  perceived  that  he  was  bathing 
their  feet,  —  a  menial  act,  the  humblest  which  he 
could  have  performed.  Shocked  beyond  power  to 
refuse,  most  of  the  twelve  submitted  to  this  strange 
ceremony.  But  Peter  protested  hotly :  "  No,  —  no  ! 
You  shall  never  wash  my  feet !  " 

"  Then,"  observed  Jesus,  smiling  gently,  "  you 
have  no  part  with  me." 

"  Lord,"  cried  the  impulsive  disciple,  "  wash  my 
hands  and  my  head  also  !  " 

The  room  grew  as  still  as  the  inner  chambers  of 
the  heart.  Peter's  heavy  breathing  could  be  heard 
distinctly  ;  the  tears  stormed  down  his  cheeks  as 
the  Rabbi  wiped  his  rough,  large  feet  with  the  ser- 
vant's towel.  But  John,  when  in  turn  his  Master 
stooped  to  serve  him,  hid  his  face  in  the  pillows  of 
the  couch  for  delicacy. 

In  order  Jesus  passed  to  Judas.  There  for  a 
moment  he  paused.  It  was  thought  by  those  who, 
being  nearest,  most  plainly  read  the  expression  of 
his  face,  that  he  would  have  omitted  the  treasurer 
from  the  perplexing  ceremony.  But  he  did  not. 


GETHSEMANE  341 

Drawing  himself  to  his  height,  he  seemed  for  the 
instant  to  rise  above  the  traitor  like  a  flame  that 
might  fall  and  annihilate  him.  Then  the  Eabbi's 
kingly  figure  bowed  itself,  and  his  fine  hands  offered 
to  the  basest  soul  in  Palestine  the  same  humble  ser- 
vice that  he  expended  on  better  men.  Judas  endured 
the  act  without  speaking,  but  he  writhed  under  it. 

Jesus  resumed  his  talith  silently.  His  appearance 
seemed  to  have  gained,  not  lost,  in  dignity  by  this 
singular  digression  from  the  usual  relation  between 
chief  and  subordinate.  With  more  than  royal 
demeanor  he  returned  to  his  couch,  and  authorita- 
tively began  to  explain  his  reason  for  what  he  had 
done. 

"  Ye  call  me  your  Master,  as  indeed  I  am.  Yet 
I,  your  Lord  and  Master,  have  washed  your  feet. 
Wash  ye  one  another's  feet !  Is  the  servant  greater 
than  his  lord  ?  " 

Such  a  lesson  in  personal  humility  did  he  now  set 
forth  as  a  man  could  not  have  forgotten  till  his  last 
breath  had  gone  out  in  the  struggle  between  the 
nobler  and  the  smaller  in  him  ;  nor  until  he  had 
learned  where  lies  the  difficult  border-line  between 
the  force  of  individuality  necessary  to  achievement, 
and  that  force  of  vanity  which  usurps  the  energy 
and  the  fair  fame  of  the  other. 

The  twelve  thought  how  they  had  wrangled  about 
a  seat  at  a  supper,  and  they  hung  their  heads. 

To  themselves  they  said,  —  and  some  whispered 
the  words  to  their  neighbors,  —  "  We  will  never  do 
a  petty  thing  like  this  again.  Next  time  we  will  be 
larger-minded  ;  we  will  please  him  better." 


342  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

This  was  one  of  the  resolutions  wrung  from  shame 
when  opportunity  is  past.  There  was  to  be  no  next 
time.  For  two  thousand  years  that  meal  in  the 
stone  house  has  been  known  to  men  as  the  Last  Sup- 
per. Yet  the  minds  of  those  who  partook  of  it  did 
not  seem  to  grasp  the  fact  that  it  was  not  to  be  one  of 
many  more  when  they  should  be  the  guests  of  their 
dear  Lord ;  he  quiet,  pale,  tender,  and  looking, 
please  God,  something  happier  than  he  did  to-night. 
Love  deluded  them,  as  it  always  does  the  loving. 
They  could  not  understand. 

The  time  had  come  to  undeceive  them  thoroughly, 
and  Jesus  could  put  it  off  no  longer. 

The  sun  had  long  since  set.  The  room  was 
lighted  only  by  its  festal  lamps.  A  patch  of  star- 
light and  darkness  lay  out  beyond  the  windows,  and 
seemed  to  draw  towards  them  like  a  curtain.  Now 
through  the  quietness  strange  words  were  heard  ; 
they  came  indistinctly  from  his  lips,  as  if  he  found 
it  almost  impossible  to  utter  them.  His  familiar 
face,  broken  with  grief,  turned  from  one  of  his 
friends  to  another.  He  seemed  to  be  appealing  to 
them  to  give  denial  to  that  which  he  was  forced,  by 
a  power  beyond  himself  or  them,  to  assert. 

"  For  one  of  you  —  shall  betray  me." 

Anguished  cries  interrupted  him.  "  Nay,  nay  ! 
The  thing  is  too  dreadful  to  think  of.  ...  Lord, 
not  one  of  us,  —  not  one  of  thy  very  own  !  For 
three  years  we  have  followed  and  trusted  thee,  — 
loved  thee.  Lord,  thou  wrongest  us !  (Has  suffer- 
ing, think  you,  touched  his  brain  ?) 

"  He  will  not  answer.     What  a  look  he  wears ! 


GETHSEMANE  343 

The  Passover  lamp  flares  on  his  quivering  face. 
Who  dares  address  him  ?  Not  I  —  nor  I.  Where 
is  Peter,  the  spokesman  ?  Put  the  question,  Peter ! 
Ask ! " 

But  the  power  of  speech  for  once  had  died  out 
of  Peter's  throat  and  lips.  His  rugged  face  worked 
with  disturbance. 

Across  the  table  sensitive  John,  overcome  with 
the  painfulness  of  the  scene,  had  hidden  his  face 
upon  the  breast  of  his  Lord.  He  raised  it  once,  try- 
ing to  calm  himself  by  a  glance  upwards  at  Jesus, 
and  at  that  instant  Peter  caught  his  eye.  A  swift 
signal  mutely  conveyed  the  entreaty  : 

"  Ask  !     He  loves  you  best." 

But  John  could  not  command  himself  to  speak 
just  then,  and  while  he  hesitated,  low  murmurs 
were  heard  creeping  from  trembling  lip  to  lip  around 
the  paschal  table. 

"  Lord,  is  it  I  ?     Or  I  ?  " 

Some  sobbed  the  words  out,  covering  their  faces 
for  shame  that  they  could  so  much  as  bring  them- 
selves to  utter  them ;  and  some  shot  them  out 
sternly,  like  men  pushed  by  a  mad  fate,  who  would 
know  the  worst  at  once.  So  much  had  been  inex- 
plicable all  this  while  !  Could  a  man  be  forced  to 
infamy  against  his  will  ?  Who  knew  but  this  was 
another  mystery,  another  trouble  ? 

At  that  moment  their  love  for  Jesus  seemed  to 
them  the  greatest  fact  in  the  world :  they  felt  as  if 
heaven  and  earth  were  armed  against  it ;  they  felt 
as  if  there  had  never  been  men  so  wronged  as  they. 

"  Lord,"  whispered  John  when  the  tension  of  the 


344  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

scene  was  at  its  height,  "  who  is  it  ?    who  shall  it 
be?     Tell  me!" 

Jesus  whispered  to  him  a  few  words  in  reply.  At 
this  moment  the  treasurer  on  the  other  side,  growing 
too  uncomfortable  to  keep  still,  leaned  forward  and 
helped  himself  out  of  the  dish  that  stood  before  the 
Rabbi.  Jesus  dipped  a  bit  of  bread  in  the  paschal 
gravy,  and  without  a  smile  handed  it  to  Judas.  The 
treasurer  accepted  the  courtesy,  turned  scarlet  to  the 
brows,  and  sharply  rose  from  the  table. 

"  Do  it  quickly,  Judas,"  said  the  Rabbi  in  a  stern, 
loud  voice. 

'When  the  group  collected  themselves,  they  were, 
besides  their  Master,  but  eleven.  Judas  had  skulked 
away,  having  been  sent,  it  was  supposed,  to  provide 
supplies  for  the  Rabbi's  comfort  to-morrow. 

'  When  he  had  gone,  there  seemed  to  be  fresh  air 
in  the  room.  Each  man  took  a  long  breath,  and 
noticed  that  his  neighbor  did  the  same.  There  set 
in  at  once  one  of  those  subtle  changes  in  the  moral 
atmosphere  which  every  one  feels,  though  no  one 
explains.  Jesus  himself  visibly  responded  to  some 
powerful  emotion. 

He  now  began  to  talk  to  his  friends  freely.  He 
told  them  heart-breaking  things.  Were  theirs  all 
sanguine  temperaments,  untaught  by  nature  to  pre- 
pare for  trouble  ?  For  even  then,  at  the  last 
moment,  they  found  it  almost  impossible  to  believe 
in  the  tragedy  that  was  upon  them.  He  tried  to 
blunt  the  edge  of  the  blade  for  them  before  it 
struck.  His  whole  heart  seemed  to  go  out  in  think- 
ing of  them,  —  how  they  would  bear  this,  how  they 


r*f 


CHRIST   AT  THE   LAST   SUPPER 


GETHSEMANE  345 

could  endure  that,  how  they  should  act  under  such 
circumstances.  He  who  needed  comfort  as  man 
never  needed  it  before,  as  no  man  has  dared  say 
that  he  has  needed  it  since,  only  had  a  care  to  give 
it  to  those  who  loved  him,  and  whom  he  loved  best. 
He  called  them  by  affectionate  terms,  — "  Little 
children." 

"I  am  with  you  for  a  little  while  longer,"  he 
added  plaintively,  when  he  saw  how  startled  they 
were.  "  Love  one  another  !  Remember  how  I  have 
loved  you." 

He  spoke  so  touchingly  that  a  man  must  have 
a  soul  of  frost  who  can  recall  his  words  without 
emotion. 

The  disciple  whose  independence  of  thought 
no  emergency  could  altogether  fetter  spoke  out 
brusquely : 

"  Whither  goest  thou,  Rabbi  ?  " 

"  I  go  where  ye  cannot  follow  now,"  said  Jesus 
firmly. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  persisted  Peter.  4,'  I  will  lay  down 
my  life  for  thee  !  " 

Jesus  smiled,  —  a  smile  which  no  man  could  read. 

"  Thou  shalt  deny  me,  Peter,  before  the  cock 
crows." 

Inarticulate  sounds  of  horror  ran  round  the  group. 
Every  man  looked  at  Peter  with  indignation.  He 
had  flung  himself  upon  the  floor  ;  his  only  reply  was 
to  put  up  his  hands  and  stroke  his  Lord's  feet.  No 
one  could  see  his  face.  Voluble  Peter  was  past  an- 
swering. He  was  saying  to  himself,  "  I  will  show 
them  !  He  will  see !  "  His  rough  hands,  gnarled 


346  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

by  the  sheets  that  hauled  the  sails  of  Gennesaret, 
continued  to  stroke  his  Rabbi's  unsandaled  feet. 
The  eyes  of  Jesus  filled. 

The  evening  was  passing ;  all  too  rapidly,  all  too 
heavily.  Across  the  countenance  of  Jesus  advanced 
an  immeasurable  shadow.  He  took  up  the  Passover 
loaf  and  broke  it,  with  a  solemnity  so  significant  that 
every  eye  in  the  room  now  fastened  itself  upon  him. 
His  low  voice  faltered  a  little  in  the  Passover  bless- 
ing, and  when  he  said  : 

"  This  is  my  body,  —  broken,  and  for  you.    Eat." 

He  poured  the  wine  into  the  paschal  cups.  It  ran 
a  deep  red  in  the  light  of  the  festal  lamps. 

"  This  is  my  blood,"  he  added  ;  "  drink." 

In  a  silence  like  that  of  the  after  world,  the  group 
obeyed  him. 

With  bowed  heads,  with  streaming  cheeks,  with 
shrinking  lips,  they  ate,  they  drank  ;  wondering,  but 
asking  him  no  question  now. 

The  cup  trembled  a  little  in  his  hands  as  he 
pressed  it  to  the  lips  of  John.  In  his  eyes  rested 
the  solitary  look  of  far  prevision  which  his  friends 
had  learned  to  know. 

What  did  he  see?  Cruciform  oak,  nails,  the 
point  of  a  spear,  then  the  gush  which  comes  from 
the  heart? 

But  what  did  he  see  ?  Far  down  the  years  quiet 
groups  in  holy  houses,  sitting  with  bowed  heads.  The 
dull  white  of  broken  bread,  the  gleam  of  red  wine, 
the  pure  tint  of  silver,  show  and  shift  across  the  scene. 
The  afternoon  wanes  to  dusk.  Prayer  and  sacred 
song  are  softly  audible.  This  is  one  of  the  hours 


GETHSEMANE  347 

whose  memory  flits  far  across  a  driven  life.  Doubt 
remembers  it,  and  moral  peril,  and  sorrow  leans  on 
it.  It  comes  to  mean  a  power  in  the  world  of  men, 
gentle  as  that  of  motherhood,  strong  as  that  of 
worship.  With  wet  eyes,  with  hushed  hearts,  those 
who  celebrate  this  solemnity  do  think  of  him  :  they 
murmur  a  name,  —  it  is  his  ;  they  melt  with  tender- 
ness for  suffering,  —  it  is  his. 

The  feeling  that  his  own  race,  his  own  day  denied 
him,  the  future  gives  him.  Millions  offer  what  the 
few  refused.  The  true  heart  of  the  world  will  not 
foreclose  its  sympathy  from  this  man  acquainted  with 
grief. 

With  wide,  grand  eyes  gazing  out  through  the 
windows  of  the  upper  chamber  of  the  stone  house, 
he  saw  these  things  and  spoke  not  of  them.  Sacra- 
ment was  in  his  silence. 

He  broke  it  by  some  of  the  most  beautiful  words 
that  ever  came  from  his  lips.  He  began,  in  a  voice 
scarcely  above  a  whisper,  to  offer  to  his  friends  his 
last  directions,  to  extend  his  parting  benedictions. 

The  Passover  lights  burned  low,  and  seemed 
almost  afraid  to  reveal  his  face,  which  melted  into 
dimness,  which  struggled  into  form,  and  wore  a 
wonderful  expression.  Sobbing  was  heard  about 
the  paschal  table.  Some  hid  their  faces  in  their 
hands,  but  John  wept  upon  the  arm  of  his  Lord. 
Peter  had  not  moved  from  the  floor  where  he  lay  at 
Jesus'  feet. 

"  Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled.  Ye  believe  in 
God.  .  .  .  Believe  in  me.  ...  I  am  the  way,  I  am 


348  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

the  truth,  I  am  the  life.  ...  I  will  not  leave  you 
comfortless !  I  will  come  to  you !  .  .  .  Now  I  go  my 
way.  I  go  to  Him  that  sent  me.  In  the  world  ye 
shall  have  trouble.  Have  good  cheer.  I  overcome 
the  world.  .  .  .  How  many  things  have  I  to  say  to 
you !  But  you  cannot  bear  them,  —  you  cannot  bear 
them  now.  .  .  .  Peace  I  leave  with  you.  I  give  you 
my  peace." 

He  did  not  speak  for  a  space  following  these 
compassionate  words;  and  when  he  found  utterance 
again,  the  eleven  perceived  that  he  was  praying. 
The  voice  for  whose  tenderness  they  should  go  starv- 
ing all  the  remainder  of  their  lives  began  to  plead 
with  Heaven.  They  had  never  heard  — who  had 
ever  heard  ?  —  a  paschal  prayer  of  consecration  like 
this  one.  It  signified  that  the  sacred  services  of  the 
evening  were  at  an  end. 

"Father,  the  hour  is  come.  Glorify  thy  Son. 
.  .  .  Thou  hast  given  him  power  .  .  .  that  he  should 
give  eternal  life  to  as  many  as  Thou  hast  given  him. 
.  .  .  This  is  life  eternal,  ...  to  know  Thee,  the 
only  true  God,  and  Jesus  the  Christ  whom  Thou 
hast  sent.  ...  I  have  finished  the  work  which  Thou 
gavest  me.  .  .  .  Behold  the  men  which  Thou  gavest 
me.  I  pray  for  them." 

Then  followed  for  their  sakes  such  loving  entrea- 
ties, such  thoughtfulness  for  them  at  the  very  ear  of 
God,  as  it  wrung  the  souls  of  his  friends  to  hear; 
and  they  wept  so  that  they  feared  lest  they  lose  the 
entirety  of  the  prayer,  whose  solemn  meaning  came 
to  them  but  slowly  in  broken  phrases :  "  Let  them 
be  one,  as  we  are  one  ;  I  in  them,  and  they  in  me. 


GETHSEMANE  349 

.  .  .  The  world  does  not  know  Thee.  But  I  have 
known  Thee,  .  .  .  O  righteous  Father !  " 

The  accents  of  prayer  had  but  died  on  the  lips 
of  Jesus  when  they  opened  again  in  song.  Quite 
firmly  he  led  the  strains  of  a  Passover  hymn,  as  the 
ritual  of  his  church  prescribed.  The  ascriptions  of 
an  ancient  psalm  dear  to  the  Hebrew  faith  echoed 
to  the  ceiling  of  the  upper  room,  and  floated  strongly 
from  the  open  windows  upon  the  evening  air.  All 
the  world  could  have  heard  the  singing.  It  did  not 
occur  to  the  hated  and  hunted  man  to  say :  "  Hush ! 
Speak  low,  pray  softly,  but  do  not  sing.  Let  us  not 
expose  ourselves  to  danger  unnecessarily." 

In  the  certain  ears  of  peril,  in  the  grip  of  inev- 
itable death,  triumphantly  and  joyously,  the  sweet, 
deep,  voice  of  Jesus  rang  out : 

"  O,  give  thanks  unto  the  Lord ! 
For  He  is  good !  " 

The  shapes  of  shame  and  torture  flitted  into  the 
stone  room.  Images  which  froze  the  blood  at  his 
heart  huddled  between  him  and  the  Passover  lamps. 
But  he  sang  on  strongly : 

"  Oh,  give  thanks  unto  the  Lord  God  of  Heaven, 
For  His  mercy  endureth  forever !  " 

The  singing  penetrated  into  the  open  air ;  the 
notes  of  his  pathetic  voice  dropped  into  the  street. 
Few  men  had  heard  Jesus  sing,  and  the  beauty 
of  his  tone  attracted  attention.  Twos  and  threes 
stopped  to  listen.  Many  foreigners,  not  occupied 
with  the  paschal  ceremony,  were  strolling  about  the 
city.  Groups  collected  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  stone  house. 


350  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

A  skulking  figure,  stealing  down  the  street,  waved 
a  Koman  guardsman  back,  and  listened  with  the 
others.  Judas  Iscariot  drew  himself  into  the  shadow 
of  an  alley  and  watched.  It  was  but  a  few  moments 
after  this  that  the  paschal  party  left  the  upper 
chamber  and  came  out  into  the  street. 

When  the  singing  had  ceased,  the  groups  of  lis- 
teners scattered.  Jesus  and  the  eleven  passed  ap- 
parently unnoticed,  and  set  their  faces  eastward. 
Having  avoided  the  Temple  area,  the  party  turned 
northward  up  the  valley  of  the  Kedron. 

"  Lord,  I  am  ready  to  go  with  thee  to  prison  and 
to  death !  " 

"  Simon,  Simon !  I  tell  thee,  before  the  cock  shall 
crow  this  day,  thou  shalt  three  times  deny  me !  " 

"  Lord,  though  I  should  die  with  thee,  yet  would 
I  not  deny  thee !  " 

"Nor  I,—  norjl" 

"  Rabbi,  whosoever  faileth  thee,  thou  canst  count 
on  me  !  " 

"  And  me,  —  dear  Lord,  on  me !  " 

The  speakers  in  this  moving  dialogue  stared  at 
one  another's  whitening  faces  through  the  sickly 
color  of  the  late  evening.  It  was  not  quite  dark  in 
Gethsemane,  for  a  full  moon,  contesting  with  a 
stormy  cloud,  peered  through.  The  garden  rested 
upon  the  arm  of  Olivet ;  it  was  as  if  the  mountain 
tried  to  enfold  it,  and  to  conceal  it  from  sight.  For 
the  shadow  of  the  cultivated  olive  grove,  always  thick, 
seemed  that  evening  dense.  It  was  a  still,  cool  spot, 
secure  from  disturbance ;  a  favorite  with  Jesus.  He 


GETHSEMANE  351 

had  spent  many  solitary  nights  there.  Vigil  and 
prayer  whose  sacred  story  no  man  knew,  had  dedi- 
cated it,  —  how  often  !  how  desolately  !  The  place 
was  dear  to  him ;  his  feet  turned  to  it  instinctively. 
The  eleven  had  followed  him,  disturbed  and  subdued. 
Now  the  group  stood  close  together,  all  pressing 
about  him. 

They  fell  back  when  he  signified,  by  a  gesture, 
his  wish  for  the  society  of  the  three  whom  he  pre- 
ferred. The  rest  remained,  shut  out  from  their  Lord's 
confidence,  but  they  did  not  trouble  him  to  ask  him 
why. 

The  three  walked  apart  with  Jesus  into  the  most 
secluded  portion  of  the  olive  garden.  It  was  darker 
here,  and  strangely  still.  Jesus  stretched  out  his 
arms  with  a  groan.  He  who  had  suffered  so  much 
and  so  long,  and  who  never  complained  of  the  worst 
that  happened,  nor  ever  wore  on  the  feelings  of  his 
friends,  suddenly  appealed  to  them  by  the  most 
piteous  words : 

"  My  soul  is  exceeding  sorrowful,  .  .  .  even  to 
death.  Tarry,  and  watch  with  me !  "  he  entreated. 
Before  any  one  of  the  three  could  reply,  he  had 
disappeared  in  the  heart  of  the  grove. 

Under  the  olives  it  was  black  about  the  roots. 
Far  overhead,  the  struggling  moon  brought  out 
the  silver  look  of  the  trees  ;  they  blended  from  black 
to  light,  as  if  blurred  with  a  slow,  soft  brush.  The 
sharper  outlines  of  the  slim  leaves  were  etched  dis- 
tinctly. There  was  scarcely  any  wind  ;  but  some- 
times a  breath  sighed,  and  the  moon  glanced  below. 


352  THE*  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

Around  the  foliage  of  one  thick  tree  its  neighbors 
gathered  closely,  as  if  they  guarded  it.  The  shadow 
beneath  was  as  dark  as  death.  The  light  above  did 
not  penetrate  it. 

At  the  foot  of  the  thick  tree,  with  knotted  hands, 
with  face  upon  the  ground,  a  solitary  figure  sank. 

Human  endurance  has  gone  to  the  limits  of  pain, 
shame,  and  death  for  all  the  causes  that  can  torment 
the  souls  and  bodies  of  men.  Fate  and  force  have 
met  and  fought  in  the  name  of  every  conviction  that 
feeds  on  the  will  of  an  unconquerable  being,  and 
the  war  has  gone  mightily  in  many  a  strong  heart. 
But  here  was  a  man  who  carried  a  burden  so  isolate 
that  the  imagination  almost  refuses  to  hold  it. 

It  has  been  asked,  Why  did  not  Jesus  Christ 
become  a  maniac  ? 

There  have  been  moral  alienists  who  would,  if 
they  could,  have  detected  symptoms  of  mental  dis- 
ease in  this  dauntless  life.  But  the  calm  eye  of  his 
personal  sanity  has  replied  to  the  interrogations  of 
twenty  centuries.  He  had  not  even  the  usual  pro- 
portion of  morbidness  or  eccentricity  which  falls  to 
the  lot  of  great  minds.  Here  was  a  sane  man,  who 
believed  that  the  salvation  of  the  human  race  rested 
upon  himself.  .  .  . 

In  success,  in  activity,  in  religious  oratory,  in  the 
energies  of  mercy,  this  belief  had  passed  for  the 
most  part  undistressed,  if  not  undisturbed.  Geth- 
semane  challenged  it.  Defeat,  disgrace,  and  ap- 
proaching death  shook  conviction  to  the  foundation. 
At  the  roots  of  the  olives  the  smitten  man,  with  up- 


CHRIST   IN   GETHSEMANE 


GETHSEMANE  353 

reaching  hands,  groped  like  the  blind.  Above  the 
treetop  was  the  sky ;  he  felt  upwards  for  it,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  thing  that  he  could  grasp  and  hold.  The 
upper  branches  stirred  :  the  brightening  moonlight, 
like  some  forced  and  frightened  witness,  glanced  at 
the  upturned  face  it  saw,  and  fled.  The  thick  foli- 
age closed  in  again.  He  had  seen  the  heavens  im- 
pearled,  hollowed  like  a  chalice. 

It  seemed  to  him  to  be  held  to  his  recoiling  lips, 
a  draught  of  agony  which  he  must  drink.  He  cried 
out  against  it : 

"Father!  Father!" 

He  was  still  so  young,  so  vigorous !  The  blood 
beat  strongly  in  his  being.  He  loved  life,  as  all 
well  souls  and  bodies  do,  and  his  were  so  sound ! 
Health  throbbed  in  every  artery,  in  every  cell.  Sick- 
ness had  never  weakened  him.  No  taint  had  ever 
marred  him.  His  system  had  never  become  the 
slave  of  his  overstrained  nerves.  Even  the  torment 
of  prolonged  vigil  had  not  conquered  him.  He  was 
alive  to  the  last  red  drop  in  his  fair,  pure  body  ;  he 
was  alive  to  the  last  energy  of  his  unshaken  brain. 
And  his  heart  ?  —  why,  the  life  of  his  heart  seemed 
something  great  enough  to  supply  the  forces  and  the 
fountains  of  the  world  ! 

Death !  —  at  the  top  of  vigor,  at  the  brim  of 
existence  !  Slow  torture,  and  shameful,  —  and  to- 
morrow !  Unnecessary  death !  .  .  . 

The  stillness  startled  him.  Smitten  with  a  sud- 
den sense  of  his  loneliness,  he  staggered  up  and 
gazed  about  him,  looking  for  his  friends.  He  had 
spent  himself  in  prayer,  had  shut  himself  in  to  the 


354  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

society  of  God.  Yet  such  a  yearning  for  human 
sympathy  rushed  upon  him  that  it  seemed  as  if  he 
would  drown  in  it.  He  pushed  the  olive  branches 
apart,  and  called  the  names  dearest  to  him,  —  Peter, 
and  James,  and  "John,  John,  John!"  he  cried  be- 
seechingly, like  a  man  who  pleads  for  his  life. 

But  the  tired  men,  sore  with  trouble,  were  all 
asleep.  They  turned  stupidly  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice.  Peter  sprang.  The  lip  of  Jesus  quivered. 

u  Could  you  not  watch  one  hour  with  me  ? "  he 
gently  said. 

He  went  back  to  the  thick  olive-tree  ;  there  on  the 
ground  he  fell  again. 

The  drama  of  his  life  returned  before  him,  swiftly 
as  scenery  shot  in  flame  and  smoke.  The  devout 
docility  of  his  childhood,  the  pure  dreams  of  his  boy- 
hood, repassed  ;  and  the  first  surprise  of  his  extra- 
consciousness.  He  heard  the  voice  on  Jordan  when 
his  kinsman,  the  prophet,  baptized  among  the  reeds. 
He  listened  to  the  message  of  the  clouds  when  he 
floated  on  the  head  of  Lebanon.  In  the  Temple, 
when  the  Greeks  came,  mystery  had  uttered  the 
same  words : 

"  My  beloved  Son  !  "  What  had  they  meant  ? 
What  did  they  mean  now  ?  As  slowly,  as  naturally, 
as  the  blossoming  of  character,  his  explanation  of 
his  own  being  had  presented  itself  to  him.  It  had 
developed  as  life  develops,  with  no  more  haste,  with 
no  more  strenuousness  ;  with  something  of  the  same 
uncertainty  and  bewilderment ;  with  passages  of 
glorious  confidence ;  with  intervals  of  humble  fear, 
but  steadily  growing  and  gaining  on  doubt.  He  had 


GETHSEMANE  355 

known  all  the  noble  self -distrust  that  only  the  finest 
nature  is  capable  of  feeling ;  and  he  had  known  all 
the  strong  trust  in  another  which  only  the  highest 
can  know. 

He  had  staked  everything,  he  had  suffered  every- 
thing, on  the  conviction  that  he  was  in  some  supreme 
sense  different  from  that  which  governed  the  per- 
sonality of  any  other  man,  the  Son  of  his  God ; 
chosen  for  a  transcendent  mission  ;  destined  to  lift  a 
world  of  men  out  of  the  doom  of  life. 

By  the  solitary  pressure  of  his  own  personal  char- 
acter and  history,  he  believed  that  he  was  required 
to  wrest  the  solid  mass  of  human  evil  and  misery 
over  into  the  direction  of  purity  and  peace. 

If  this  was  not  the  most  tremendous  delusion 
which  ever  visited  a  human  brain,  then  was  it  the 
grandest  affirmation.  For  such  was  not  the  task 
of  a  man.  It  was  the  privilege  of  a  Divinity. 

Nor  was  this  all. 

With  leisurely  power  there  had  forced  themselves 
upon  this  solitary  being  beliefs  that  set  him  more 
and  more  apart  from  his  kind.  He  had  begun  life 
by  wondering  why  he  was  not  like  other  men  ;  he 
ended  it  by  understanding. 

As  naturally  as  manhood  develops  from  infancy, 
so  Christhood  had  developed  from  manhood.  Grad- 
ually, quietly,  he  had  come  to  perceive  that  it  was 
his  to  live  the  divine  life  at  the  human  odds. 

But  this  was  not  all.  It  was  the  conviction  of 
Jesus  that  it  depended  upon  himself  whether  men 
should  possess  the  privilege  of  personal  immortality. 

He  believed  that  he  held  in  his  own  hands  the 


356  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

gift  of  eternal  life  to  the  human  soul.  He  believed 
that  upon  the  facts  of  his  life,  and  upon  the  facts 
of  his  death,  this  solitary  responsibility  rested.  All 
through  his  later  life,  in  these  three  years  of  patient 
struggle  to  obey  what  he  believed  to  be  the  will  of 
Heaven  for  him,  he  had  felt  the  weight  of  this 
inconceivable  burden  unevenly ;  now  more  heavily, 
now  more  lightly,  —  not  all  at  once,  or  he  must  have 
died  of  it.  In  Gethsemane  the  whole  load  rolled 
upon  his  shaken  frame. 

It  would  have  been  something,  it  seemed,  if  he 
had  not  altogether  failed  !  It  would  have  been  much, 
if  he  could  have  supposed  that  he  had  taught  his 
own  age  or  his  own  race  what  God  meant  him  to 
teach  them. 

Torment  and  death  would  have  been  easy  to  bear, 
could  he  have  felt  that  they  were  worth  while. 
But  no  one  understood.  Few  cared.  Most  forgot. 
In  Gethsemane  it  seemed  to  Jesus  of  Nazareth  that 
he  had  achieved  nothing.  He  was  a  defeated  man. 
He  had  missed  his  Father's  errand.  Through  the 
blind  gates  of  death,  in  a  few  hours,  he  must  be 
pushed,  to  hold  up  his  trembling,  empty  hands  and 
say: 

"  Father,  I  trusted  Thee,  —  but  I  have  failed  !  " 

There  in  the  olive-garden  lay  his  poor  friends, 
asleep  again.  Even  they  could  not  understand 
enough  to  give  him  the  little  common,  human  sym- 
pathy that  love  saves  for  the  emergency  of  the 
beloved.  He  stole  out  and  watched  them,  and  re- 
turned with  his  head  sunken  on  his  breast.  .  .  .  He 
had  bared  it  to  the  night  air  for  very  anguish,  and 


GETHSEMANE  357 

he  perceived  now  that  heavy  drops  were  falling  from 
his  face  and  body  and  streamed  upon  his  heart.  He 
looked  at  them.  In  the  faint  light  it  could  be  seen 
that  they  were  red.  .  .  . 

By  the  subtle  law  which  may  convert  the  most 
sacred  private  experiences  into  world-wide  value, 
and  which  governed  every  event  in  the  life  of  Jesus, 
there  have  been  given  to  us  certain  records  of  an 
hour  known  only  to  himself  and  to  God.  The  utter- 
most of  prayer,  the  outermost  of  sacrifice  were  in 
the  words  upon  which  the  sorrow  of  the  race  will 
stay  itself  until  men  shall  cease  to  suffer,  and  shall 
no  longer  need  to  cling  for  courage  to  the  heroes  of 
pain.  Of  these,  the  consent  of  the  world  has  placed 
him  first  who  bore  the  worst  the  most  nobly,  with 
the  least  care  for  himself,  and  with  the  most  touch- 
ing trust  in  God. 

"  Father,  not  as  I  wish !  —  as  Thou  wilt !  " 
As  his  white  lips  framed  these  words,  the  olive- 
branches  stirred  above  his  head,  and  there,  as  in  the 
Jordan  desert  when  his  troubled  life  was  at  its  morn- 
ing, the  mystical  did  visit  him.  Men  called  that 
presence  an  angel's,  not  understanding  what  an  angel 
is.  Gethsemane  knew  the  secret  of  that  comforting ; 
but  she  holds  it. 

Beyond  the  grove,  in  an  open  space,  the  now  bril- 
liant moonlight  caught,  stealthily  ascending  the  de- 
clivity, the  glint  of  a  spear.  The  sound  of  approach- 
ing feet  furtively  intruded  upon  the  silence  of  the 
garden. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
ON  TRIAL 

As  lie  stepped  out  from  the  shadow  into  the 
lighter  spaces  of  the  garden,  his  foot  was  firm. 
The  signs  of  acute  anguish  were  gone  from  his  ex- 
pression and  his  manner.  He  had  the  appearance 
of  one  who  has  absorbed  vigor,  which  makes  him 
unconscious,  for  the  time,  of  the  unendurable.  He 
had  received  some  celestial  anaesthetic. 

His  friends  were  still  sleeping.  He  called  them 
softly.  They  sprang  to  their  feet,  bewailing  and 
apologizing.  They  saw  him  standing  straight  and 
still. 

"  Take  your  rest  now, "  he  said  with  his  own 
gentleness  ;  "  he  who  betrays  me  is  here." 

Before  the  words  had  left  his  lips,  confusion 
seized  the  olive  garden.  Tramping  steps  grew 
heavier  on  the  pathway.  Lights  began  to  burn 
through  the  trees.  Armor  flashed,  and  military 
commands  became  audible.  A  delegation  of  Jew- 
ish priests  and  elders,  formally  accompanied  by  a 
detachment  summoned  from  the  fortress  of  An- 
tonia,  or  by  a  portion  of  the  large  guard  posted 
at  the  Temple  during  Passover  week,  advanced 
upon  Gethsemane. 

Judas  Iscariot  preceded  them  alone,  saluted  the 


THE   BETRAYAL 


ON  TRIAL  359 

eight  who  were  left  to  guard  the  entrance  of  the 
garden,  and  pushed  on.  In  Gethsemane  the  twelve 
were  reunited  for  one  tragic  moment.  Iscariot 
hurried  into  the  heart  of  the  garden.  Peter,  John, 
and  James,  now  thoroughly  awake,  sprang  at  the 
footfall,  but  the  familiar  face  of  one  of  their  own 
party  quieted  their  fears  for  a  time.  Judas,  whose 
brain  was  confused  with  the  imbecility  of  crime, 
made  one  childish  effort  to  free  himself  from  the 
suspicion  of  the  deed  that  he  had  perpetrated.  With 
a  feeble,  foolish  smile,  he  stepped  forward,  put  his 
arms  around  his  Rabbi,  and  effusively  kissed  him. 
A  hoarse  "  Hail,  Master !  "  passed  the  preconcerted 
signal  of  identification  to  the  arresting  officers. 

The  lip  of  Jesus  curled.  Every  fibre  in  his 
body  recoiled.  But  he  submitted  to  the  embrace 
of  Judas,  as  a  god  might  submit  to  the  touch  of 
a  befouled  spirit,  in  the  process  of  some  plan  of 
events  too  grand  to  be  disturbed  by  a  personal 
repulsion. 

He  allowed  himself  ten  words  in  reply.  Scorn 
has  never  scalded  deeper. 

"Judas!  Betrayest  thou  the  Son  of  Man?  with 
a  kiss  ?  " 

But  the  band  had  now  come  up.  Judas  fled  to 
it  for  protection.  The  Hebrew  ecclesiastics  shrank 
behind  the  Roman  soldiers,  who  pushed  on  with 
the  pomp  of  a  detachment  commissioned  to  cut  off 
a  fleeing  phalanx.  Armed  shadows  swept  under 
the  olive-trees,  and  quickly  formed  a  cordon  ;  the 
gentle,  unresisting  man  stood  caught  within  it. 

The  guardsmen  carried  torches,  and  lamps  burn- 


360  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

ing  upon  long  poles.  These  flared  high  above  the 
heads  of  the  group,  and  dashed  the  scene  on  in 
strong  effects,  —  lights,  shadows,  colors,  outlines, 
coming  out  emphatically.  Dark,  Hebrew  profiles, 
handsome  Roman  faces,  flashed  forth ;  the  gleam 
of  mail,  the  lustre  of  swords,  the  threatening  shapes 
of  heavy  cudgels.  There  were  weapons  enough  in 
the  party  to  have  quelled  a  riot. 

The  moon  had  now  become  invisible  ;  a  thick 
cloud  shielded  it.  The  garden  would  have  been 
dark  but  for  the  torches,  cutting  reddish-yellow 
swathes  among  the  olive  foliage,  and  trembling  as 
they  revealed  the  quiet  figure  which  now  stepped 
out  to  meet  the  arresting  band. 

This  movement  on  the  part  of  the  captive  was 
unexpected,  and  caused  a  momentary  perplexity. 
Jesus  stood  forth  alone,  in  the  blazon  of  the  light. 
Some  surprise  was  felt  to  see  that  he  was  smiling. 

"  Whom  seek  ye  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  natural  tone, 
not  without  a  certain  lordliness,  like  that  of  a 
host  disturbed  by  intruders  on  his  own  ground. 

"  We  seek  Jesus  of  Nazareth,"  returned  the  cap- 
tain of  the  troop,  in  some  embarrassment. 

"  I  am  he,"  replied  the  Nazarene.  He  spoke 
quietly,  but  there  was  that  in  his  accent  which 
caused  every  man  to  look  quickly  upon  him  ;  and 
when  they  had  looked,  there  was  that  in  his  appear- 
ance which  caused  every  glance  to  drop  before 
him. 

What  was  it?  — the  lines  of  his  lip?  the  atti- 
tude of  his  figure  ?  the  ray  of  his  eye  ?  There 
shot  from  him  a  sudden  force  that  no  one  could  ex- 


ON  TRIAL  361 

plain.  Whether  it  smote  the  body,  or  the  spirit, 
could  not  be  said.  Was  it  some  secret  of  nature, 
unknown  to  common  men,  like  the  action  of  fire, 
light,  or  storm  ?  Was  it  the  reply  of  wronged  in- 
nocence, or  of  startled  will  ?  Or  was  it  something 
greater  and  stranger  than  these  ? 

In  the  person  of  the  entrapped  Kabbi  stood  ma- 
jesty incarnate.  Indeed,  a  stronger  term  than  this 
passed  through  the  minds  of  some  who  were  present 
at  that  scene,  and  who  carried  through  life  its 
matchless  impression. 

The  arresting  officers  fell  back.  Some  of  them 
dropped  to  their  faces  on  the  ground.  Judas  fled  to 
the  rear  of  the  band.  He  dashed  his  hands  across 
his  eyes,  groveling  on  the  ground.  But  no  one 
thought  of  Judas.  Around  the  Nazarene  was 
drawn  an  invisible  barrier  that  could  not  be  crossed. 
With  a  smile  of  deep  significance  Jesus  repeated  his 
question  :  "  Whom  do  ye  seek  ?  "  And  with  hesi- 
tating tone  the  Roman  officer,  standing  at  a  trem- 
bling distance,  replied  as  before,  that  he  sought  Jesus 
of  Nazareth. 

"  But  I  tell  you  that  I  am  he,"  reiterated  Jesus. 
With  these  words  the  resisting  influence  between 
captors  and  captive  broke.  The  band  rushed  for- 
ward. The  captain  laid  a  hand  upon  the  shoulder 
of  his  prisoner.  In  a  moment,  Gethsemane  had 
become  a  battle-ground.  The  disciples  of  the  Naz- 
arene now  came  to  their  senses,  and  surrounded 
him.  Swords  flashed  and  clubs  swung.  Shouts 
and  cries  clashed  through  the  olive  garden,  and 
torches  fell  hissing  to  the  sod.  Peter  drew  one 


362  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

swift,  hot-headed  blow,  and  disabled  his  man  (who 
chanced  to  be  a  servant  of  the  High-priest),  not 
mortally  wounding,  but  deftly  mutilating  him. 
But  the  voice  of  Jesus  was  now  heard,  bespeaking 
protection  for  his  party,  and  preventing  a  massacre. 

"  Put  up  your  swords,"  he  commanded,  "  my 
Father  has  given  me  a  cup.  Shall  I  not  drink 
it?" 

"See!"  he  added  kindly.  The  impulse  and 
habit  of  the  healer  came  uppermost  even  at  that 
wild  moment,  and  he  put  out  his  thin,  fine  hand 
and  reached  the  wounded  man,  whose  hurt  ceased 
at  the  touch.  The  Hebrew  ecclesiastics  looked  un- 
comfortable. The  Roman  officers  stared.  When 
in  the  history  of  war  or  riot,  —  where  in  the  battles 
of  Asia  or  of  Gaul,  had  they  met  an  incident  like 
this  ?  Blood,  and  slaughter,  and  revenge,  and  bit- 
terness, they  knew ;  but  a  compassion  so  instinctive 
that  it  made  a  man  forget  to  defend  himself,  who 
could  understand? 

The  hand  of  the  captain  relaxed  on  the  prisoner's 
shoulder.  For  a  moment,  a  distressed  uncertainty 
wavered  over  the  military  band.  In  that  space, 
Jesus  shook  himself  free  of  the  Roman  grip.  He 
stood  at  his  kingly  height.  His  eye  swept  the  sol- 
diers and  the  Hebrews  until  it  seemed  as  if  it  would 
have  mown  them  down,  man  by  man.  Crisis  was 
in  his  demeanor,  and  opportunity  in  the  bewilder- 
ment of  the  arresting  party.  It  seemed,  for  an  in- 
stant, as  if  by  sheer  spiritual  superiority  he  might 
disband  them,  and  escape.  .  .  .  But  he  did  not. 
He  turned  to  his  friends,  scanning  their  familiar 


ON   TRIAL  363 

faces  tenderly,  as  if  he  would  take  a  last  look  at 
what  was  dearest  to  him. 

"  Could  I  not  pray  my  Father  ?  "  he  said  quietly. 
"  More  than  twelve  legions  of  angels  would  He  give 
me  if  I  asked  them  of  Him." 

To  these  startling  words,  no  man  replied.  He 
who  had  spoken  them  lifted  his  face  to  the  sky. 
His  hands  raised  themselves  to  his  breast,  and  there 
knotted  together.  He  had  the  aspect  of  one  who 
is  restraining  an  unfathomable  power  by  an  im- 
measurable will. 

Stars  burst  through  the  breaking  clouds ;  his 
eye  traversed  the  spaces  of  the  heavens  from  spark 
to  spark.  He  had  a  certain  military  bearing,  like 
that  of  a  commander  reckoning  his  forces.  The 
trained  soldiery  recognized  something  of  this,  by 
instinct,  and  it  was  noticed  that  many  of  them 
saluted,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  a  great  general, 
whose  tactics  they  could  not  understand,  but  whose 
superiority  was  not  a  thing  to  question. 

Twelve  legions  ?  How  fight  phalanxes  of  spirits  ? 
How  conquer  battalions  of  invisibles  ?  What  could 
one  make  of  such  an  army  ? 

These  impressions  were  but  the  material  of  a  mo- 
ment. Then  the  eye  of  Jesus  turned  from  heaven 
to  earth.  By  a  grand  gesture  he  signified  his  read- 
iness to  surrender,  and  the  hand  of  the  captain  fell 
again  upon  his  shoulder. 

They  led  him,  quite  unresisting.  He  felt,  before 
he  saw,  that  he  was  to  be  bound.  He  spoke  to 
them  only  once,  — the  tenderest  reproach  ever  of- 
fered by  captive  to  his  captors  : 


364  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

"Why  do  you  come  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  thief, 
with  swords,  with  weapons?  ...  I  was  with  you 
every  day.  I  taught  in  your  Temple.  And  ye  took 
me  not."  .  .  . 

As  they  forced  him  out  of  Gethsemane,  he  looked 
back  for  his  friends,  whom  he  had  loved,  and  who 
had  loved  him,  and  shared  his  lot  so  long.  Their 
names  quivered  on  his  lips.  In  the  shadow  of  the 
olives  —  was  that  courageous  Peter  ?  John  —  John 
must  be  here,  though  all  the  world  besides  had 
failed. 

It  occurred  to  him  to  call  them.  But  he  did  not. 
He  perceived  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  such  as 
he  had  never  felt  in  all  his  troubled  life,  that  they 
had  run ;  they  had  deserted  him,  every  man. 

His  head  sank  upon  his  breast  as  the  Roman 
captain  thrust  him  down  the  slope  of  Olivet. 

The  action  of  the  great  tragedy  now  began  to 
move  with  such  appalling  swiftness  that  the  eye  is 
half  blinded  in  the  effort  to  follow  it. 

Jesus  had  lived,  though  not  a  life  of  leisure,  a 
leisurely  life.  Up  to  this  point  there  had  been  time 
enough  for  everything.  The  childhood  of  the  Naza- 
rene  had  passed  with  the  orderliness  which  best 
educates.  His  public  career,  short  and  intense  as 
it  was,  had  taken  its  time.  He  had  thought  and 
studied,  preached  and  worked,  planned  and  executed, 
without  haste,  without  rest;  in  calm,  in  thorough- 
ness, and  in  symmetry. 

The  end  came  upon  him  like  a  cataclysm  of  na- 
ture. It  was  a  tempest  out  of  season,  hurling  him 


ON  TRIAL  365 

down  in  a  moment.  When  one  would  have  turned 
to  see  whither  he  was  borne,  he  was  gone.  He  had 
carried  himself  before  the  people  of  his  nation,  a 
law-abiding  man,  for  thirty-three  pure  and  blameless 
years.  How  did  the  law  treat  him  ?  A  sham  trial, 
an  illegal  sentence,  hurried  him  to  a  barbarous 
death.  Between  the  moment  of  his  arrest  and  that 
of  his  execution  there  dashed  by,  at  the  most,  fifteen 
hours. 

It  was  something  after  midnight  when  he  was  led 
out  of  Gethsemane.  The  April  night  was  not  warm, 
and  it  grew  chilly  as  it  advanced.  Reacting  from  the 
extreme  nervous  strain  of  the  last  hour,  Jesus  felt 
himself  grow  cold.  Instinctively  he  tried  to  wrap 
his  body,  damp  with  the  exudations  wrung  from  the 
pores  and  blood-vessels  by  agony,  and  suddenly 
exposed  to  the  night  air.  Then  the  ropes  on  his 
wrist  began  to  cut.  He  who  had  been  one  of  the 
freest  men  in  Palestine  experienced  the  first  sensa- 
tion of  lost  liberty. 

Down  through  the  Kedron  Valley,  up  through  the 
Golden  Gate,  the  military  band  swept  silently  into 
the  sleeping  city.  No  one  spoke  above  a  whisper. 
The  ripple  of  the  brook  was  the  loudest  sound.  The 
moon  was  now  clear  again,  and  the  movements  of 
the  party  could  be  distinctly  followed  by  the  glimmer 
of  its  spears.  The  prisoner  was  calm.  He  wasted 
no  strength  in  futile  struggles ;  indeed,  he  seemed  to 
have  none  to  waste.  It  was  observed  by  some  one 
that  the  bound  man  missed  his  walking-stick  that 
had  been  left  in  Gethsemane.  The  Roman  officers 


366  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

were  surprised  at  the  evident  fatigue  of  the  captive. 
At  the  bridge  1  across  the  brook,  he  stumbled  from 
very  weariness,  and  fell.  A  mailed  hand  dragged 
him  up,  and  he  struggled  on.  No  one  had  ever 
thought  of  the  Nazarene  except  as  a  man  of  good 
physical  strength ;  but  vigil  and  Gethsemane  had 
overthrown  it.  He  was  now  very  weak. 

The  agents  of  the  Hebrew  nation  and  the  officers 
of  the  Roman  government  entered  the  city  like  con- 
spirators, trying  to  cover  their  victim  from  chance 
observation.  The  capital,  crowded  with  strangers 
and  foreigners,  who  had  come  up  to  town  full  of 
interest  in  the  Nazarene,  must  not  be  roused. 
There  were  the  Galileans,  too,  a  large,  and  powerful 
number,  many  of  them  friendly  to  the  healer  who 
had  saved  their  sick,  to  the  preacher  whose  eloquence 
had  thrilled  the  shores  of  their  lake.  These  fellow- 
citizens  of  Jesus  should  be  kept  in  ignorance  of 
what  was  happening.  It  was  thought  best  to  dis- 
pense with  the  services  of  the  Roman  soldiery  as 
soon  as  possible,  and  the  captive  was  hurried  into 
the  hands  of  the  Jewish  authorities. 

In  the  palace  of  the  High-priest,  the  party  were 
ominously  received.  They  were  evidently  expected. 
In  the  dead  of  night,  the  whole  ecclesiastical  family 
were  awake  and  up.  Annas,  the  ablest  and  coldest 
officer  of  the  national  church,  who  had  retired  from 
active  service  on  his  honors  and  his  wealth,  himself 
met  the  prisoner.  The  old  man  stroked  his  long, 
white  beard ;  he  thought  of  his  personal  income,  and 
the  revenues  from  the  booths  that  the  young  fanatic 

1  Tradition. 


ON  TRIAL  367 

had  broken  up ;  for  three  years  the  Priest  had  cher- 
ished his  grudge,  but  he  said  nothing  about  so  low  a 
subject.  Jesus  had  quite  forgotten  it,  at  the  mo- 
ment ;  he  mildly  returned  the  sarcastic  gaze  which 
frostily  received  him. 

But  the  ex-Priest  had  no  mind  to  commit  himself 
too  far,  in  a  matter  whose  importance  was  evidently 
considerable :  he  turned  the  prisoner  over  to  Caia- 
phas.  One  silent,  significant,  Oriental  gesture  car- 
ried the  powerful  weight  of  the  pontiff's  advice  to 
his  son-in-law. 

The  palace  was  well  lighted  and  astir.  Many 
church  officers  were  to  be  seen;  in  fact,  a  secret 
session  of  the  Sanhedrin,  irregular,  incomplete,  and 
unlawful,  was  convened.  The  High-priest  of  the 
Jewish  nation  appeared  in  full  canonicals  to  judge  the 
case.  His  sacred  robes  rustled,  stiff  with  embroidery. 
The  light  from  the  hanging  lamps  caught  the  mitre 
on  his  brow ;  across  it  blazed  the  jeweled  words, 
"  Holiness  unto  the  Lord." 

The  eye  of  Jesus  lifted  and  rested  on  the  mitre, 
but  he  did  not  speak ;  he  had  not  spoken.  With 
the  instinct  of  the  orator,  his  hand  stirred  as  if  it 
would  have  indicated,  by  an  eloquent  gesture,  some- 
thing of  the  emotion  of  the  moment.  But  Annas 
had  ordered  that  the  prisoner  be  not  unbound  ;  his 
wrists  were  crossed  behind  him.  His  flesh,  more 
sensitive  than  that  of  a  ruder  man,  had  already 
begun  to  chafe  beneath  the  ropes. 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  him  to  ask  himself  why 
he  was  enduring  this  petty  indignity.  There  surged 
within  him  the  rush  of  his  own  peculiar  conscious- 


368  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

ness  of  power.  It  needed  but  a  thought's  force  to 
burst  these  bonds  as  if  they  had  been  cobwebs  caught 
upon  his  fingers.  All  his  passionate  love  of  liberty 
leaped,  —  his  foresight  of  worse  humiliation  to  come, 
his  sense  of  wronged  majesty,  his  insulted  innocence. 
His  voluntary  helplessness  resented  his  conditions. 
He  thought  how  easy  to  be  free,  quietly  to  effect  the 
loosening  of  the  rope,  to  point  the  finger  silently  at 
the  mitre,  to  blast  the  unholy  brow  that  bore  the 
holy  words,  in  a  moment  to  turn  his  judges  into  his 
prisoners,  to  convert  the  palace  into  the  background 
of  such  a  scene  as  history  had  never  witnessed. 

He  thought  of  that  to  which  he  gave  himself  over 
if  he  accepted  the  natural  course  of  events.  He 
remembered  how  costly  it  all  was.  ..."  Must  I  be 
the  sacrifice  ?  "  he  asked.  His  breath  came  fast ; 
his  color  changed ;  the  pupil  of  his  eye  enlarged. 
The  Priest,  who  had  begun  irritably  to  cross-ques- 
tion him,  suddenly  drew  back  before  the  expression 
of  his  prisoner.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  moment  in  which  every  man  in  the 
hall  was  aware  of  an  oppressive  exigency  whose  na- 
ture he  did  not  understand.  The  swinging  lamps 
in  the  palace  trembled  on  their  slender  chains. 

Down  the  slopes  of  Olivet  two  timid  figures  stole 
away  from  the  groves  where  the  eleven  had  hidden, 
and  like  men  who  had  been  struck  on  the  head  and 
stunned,  suddenly  gathering  their  lost  senses,  ran 
through  the  valley  and  over  the  brook,  hurried 
through  the  Golden  Gate,  and  across  the  Temple  area. 
Peter  was  ahead,  and  yet  he  kept  falling  behind  as 


ON  TRIAL  369 

impulsive  people  do,  from  misdirected  energy.  He 
stumbled  and  regained  himself,  and  pushed  on  ;  but, 
being  now  well  within  the  walls,  he  ceased  run- 
ning, that  he  might  not  attract  attention,  and  made 
his  way  westward  as  naturally  as  he  could,  towards 
the  High-priest's  palace.  He  was  moaning  openly, 
and  his  rugged  young  face  looked  old. 

But  the  dearest  disciple  walked  with  his  eyes 
upon  the  ground.  He  seemed  to  notice  nothing. 
In  the  moonlight  it  could  be  seen  that  his  lips  moved 
dryly.  "  We  all,  —  we  all  forsook  him,"  muttered 
John  ;  "  and  we  fled." 

Jesus  stood  before  his  judges  with  closed  lips. 
They  had  not  opened  to  blight  his  accusers,  nor  to 
defend  himself.  His  momentary  agitation  had  sub- 
sided into  intense  calm.  The  palace  stood  untrou- 
bled ;  the  council  chamber  was  not  disturbed ;  the 
grim  Hebrew  faces,  crowded  in  it,  wore  their  natural 
expressions,  touched  only  by  unusual  animosity. 
Nothing  had  occurred  to  startle. 

It  seemed  to  one  who,  having  some  acquaintance 
among  the  guards,  had  effected  an  entrance  to  the 
inner  court  of  the  palace  that  escaped  catastrophe 
vibrated  in  the  air.  It  seemed  as  if  anything  might 
have  happened.  But  nothing  had. 

The  Nazarene  was  suddenly  aware  that  John  was 
as  near  him  as  he  could  get,  and  a  smile  of  recog- 
nition flitted  over  the  white  face  of  Jesus ;  it  was 
a  warm  smile,  natural  and  sweet ;  as  if  the  prisoner 
had  forgotten  that  he  had  been  deserted,  and  re- 
membered only  that  he  was  beloved. 


370  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

John's  face  quivered ;  he  felt  as  if  he  could  have 
died  of  shame.  Trying  to  hide  his  emotion,  he  went 
away  and  busied  himself  exerting  some  influence  for 
the  admission  of  Peter,  who  stood  in  terror  without, 
among  the  servants  and  soldiers. 

The  night  was  growing  very  chilly,  and  fires  were 
burning  in  the  courts.  Peter  crept  up,  shivering, 
and  began  to  warm  his  hands  childishly.  He  was  in 
a  panic.  The  servants  began  to  badger  him  with 
servile  curiosity.  Mortal  fear  mounted  to  his  brain. 

Jesus  missed  John,  and  experienced  a  deepening 
loneliness  that  threatened  every  moment  to  unnerve 
him.  But  his  whole  attention  was  now  required  to 
the  events  of  the  night.  These  were  moving  with 
malicious  swiftness.  The  condemnation  of  the  Naz- 
arene  was  a  whirlwind,  not  a  process.  Between 
midnight  of  Thursday,  and  nine  o'clock  of  Friday, 
Jesus  Christ  was  subjected  to  six  distinct  hearings 
or  trials  ;  and  the  procedure  was  illegal  from  begin- 
ning to  end. 

Caiaphas  had  begun  hotly  enough,  and  without 
much  tact.  Briefly,  who  and  where  were  the  disci- 
ples of  the  accused  ?  In  detail,  what  was  his  doc- 
trine ?  Reply  specifically  to  these  questions.  But 
there  was  no  reply.  It  seemed,  for  a  time,  that  no 
one  could  induce  Jesus  to  break  the  remarkable 
silence  that  he  had  elected  to  observe.  Such  scorn 
of  the  High-priest,  and  of  the  Council,  curled  on 
his  sealed  lips  as  might  have  withered  Augustus, 
the  Emperor  of  the  world.  But  unexpectedly  came 
these  calm  and  unanswerable  words :  "  I  spoke 
openly  to  the  world.  I  always  taught  in  the  syna- 


ON  TRIAL  .        371 

gogues  and  the  Temple.  ...  In  secret  have  I  said 
nothing.  Why  do  you  question  me?  ...  Ask 
those  who  heard  me." 

A  stinging  blow  on  the  cheek  from  the  palm  of  a 
hand  —  one  of  the  utmost  insults  that  an  Oriental 
could  receive  —  was  the  retort.  A  few  impudent 
words  accompanied  it.  Jesus,  when  he  could  re- 
cover himself,  observed  the  servant  who  was  respon- 
sible for  this  low  thing.  His  reply  came  with  the 
gentle  dignity  of  a  master : 

"  Have  I  spoken  evil  ?  Then  testify  of  it.  If 
well,  why  do  you  smite  me  ?  " 

Irritated  by  the  dignity  or  by  the  logic  of  the 
prisoner,  Caiaphas  formally  turned  him  over  to  the 
council.  The  night  was  passing  rapidly.  The 
ecclesiastical  dignitaries  began  to  fret  at  the  loss  of 
their  usual  rest,  and  there  was  a  general  disposition 
to  hurry  the  proceedings,  so  that  these  comfortable 
men  could  get  to  their  beds. 

He  who  had  not  slept  for  now  many  nights,  and 
whose  countenance  was  carved  with  the  deep  chisel 
of  endurance  approaching  rfs  limit,  was  the  most 
self-possessed  man  in  the  palace. 

Dawn  was  coming.  Opaque  purple  grew  to  trans- 
lucent gray  beyond  the  windows,  and  showed  past 
the  edges  of  the  curtains  drawn  to  conceal  the  deeds 
of  that  night  from  the  knowledge  of  the  capital. 
The  eye  of  Jesus  turned  to  meet  the  rising  of  this 
last  sun. 

Witness  after  witness  was  forced  to  the  front ; 
but  they  were  all  preposterously  perjured,  and  the 
case  made  little  headway  till  one  was  found  who 


372  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

« 

testified  that  the  accused  had  been  heard  to  utter 
certain  atrocities  concerning  the  holy  Temple.  Then 
Jesus  remembered  that  in  a  moment  of  devout  ec- 
stasy, he  had  once  cried :  "  Destroy  it !  I  will  build 
it  in  three  days,"  and  his  face  changed  subtly,  so 
that  the  Priest,  believing  him  about  to  defend  him- 
self, angrily  cross-questioned  him  afresh.  But  the 
prisoner  preserved  his  majestic  silence  still. 

Then  Caiaphas  fell  back  upon  a  show  of  his  full 
pontifical  authority ;  but  his  voice  had  more  of  the 
shrillness  of  rage  than  the  depth  of  dignity,  when  he 
said: 

"  I  adjure  thee,  by  the  Living  God  !  " 

At  this  appeal,  the  countenance  of  Jesus  took  on 
a  profound  solemnity.  He  perceived  that  the  crisis 
of  his  fate  was  upon  him.  Should  he  reply?  He 
stood  on  trial  for  his  life,  unaided.  Not  a  witness 
for  his  defense  had  been  allowed  him.  His  stately 
reserve  had  been  his  only  friend,  had  proved  his 
best  protection.  Should  he  break  that  frail  barrier 
between  himself  and  his  doom  ?  Now,  when  he  was 
expected  to  keep  still  should  he  speak,  and  take  the 
consequences?  Silence  was  his  one,  last  chance; 
should  he  fling  it  away  ?  Then  who  would  be  the 
sacrifice?  .  .  . 

"Tell  us,"  insisted  the  High-priest;  "are  you  the 
Christ,  the. Son  of  God?" 

"You  have  said  it,"  replied  the  Nazarene,  in  a 
natural  tone. 

The  council  took  up  the  challenge  feverishly ;  sev- 
eral voices  reiterated :  "  Are  you  the  Christ  ?  " 

"  If  I  tell  you  that  I  ain,  you  will  not  believe  me," 


ON  TRIAL  373 

returned  the  accused,  "  and  if  I  ask  you,  ye  will  not 
let  me  go." 

Now  Caiaphas,  pushing  the  point  that  he  had 
made,  followed  up  his  brief  advantage,  repeating 
exultantly :  "  Are  you  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  the 
Blessed?" 

And  Jesus,  in  a  ringing  voice,  replied,  "  I  am." 

A  storm  of  execration  half  smothered  his  next 
words,  which  were  of  a  mysterious  and  commanding 
character.  Jesus  grew  mute  again.  He  fastened 
his  eye  upon  the  mitre  of  the  High-priest,  where  the 
jeweled  inscription  blazed  which  was  understood  to 
hold  the  pledge  of  atonement  for  the  sin  of  blas- 
phemy. Nor  did  he  remove  his  gaze,  while  Caiaphas, 
in  the  presence  of  his  council,  tearing  his  priestly 
robe  from  throat  to  hem,  in  witness  of  the  deadliest 
offense  known  to  the  Hebrew  code,  cried  out  pas- 
sionately :  "  He  hath  blasphemed !  " 

A  scene  too  piteous  to  portray  succeeded.  All 
capital  cases  must  go  to  the  Roman  law,  but  the 
prisoner  was  practically  considered  as  a  condemned 
man.  Dragged  from  the  council  hall  to  the  inner 
court,  he  was  given  over  to  the  malice  of  his  ac- 
cusers and  of  the  spectators. 

This  took  shocking  forms.  .  .  . 

Day  was  deepening.  The  air  was  so  still  and  so 
clear  that  the  crowing  of  a  cock,  far  down  the  val- 
ley, outside  the  city  gates,  echoed  to  the  palace  and 
through  it,  with  shrill  distinctness. 

The  tortured  man  turned  and  looked  into  the 
court.  There  the  bravest  of  his  disciples,  harried 


374  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

by  servants,  and  livid  with  terror,  stood  gesticulating 
violently.  His  hoarse  voice  penetrated  quite  plainly 
to  his  Eabbi's  ears :  "  I  tell  you  again,  I  do  not  know 
the  man ! " 

When  Peter  raised  his  wretched  eyes,  they  met 
those  of  Jesus,  gently  and  mournfully  regarding  him. 

He  lived  to  be  an  old  man,  but  it  has  been  said  of 
Simon  Peter  that  never,  from  that  dawn  to  his  last, 
could  he  sleep  past  the  hour  that  had  known  his 
shame ;  but  rising  from  his  bed,  while  the  cocks 
called  through  the  valleys,  he  prayed  forgiveness  for 
his  sin,  and  found  it. 

It  was  morning,  and  the  light  was  full,  when  the 
?mresisting  man,  heavily  chained,  was  led  to  the 
Roman  court  for  his  civil  trial.  Pilate,  the  procu- 
rator, was  on  duty.  The  politician  had  no  special 
mind  to  condemn  the  prisoner ;  and  a  natural  disin- 
clination to  severity  in  this  case  was  deepened  by 
the  influence  of  a  woman,  his  wife.  It  was  owing 
partly  to  her  presence  that  Pilate  was  occupying 
the  marble  palace  of  Herod  the  Great,  —  a  magnifi- 
cent building,  thought  by  good  architectural  judges 
to  vie  in  splendor  with  the  Temple  itself. 

The  Roman  matron,  secretly  merciful  to  the  Naza- 
rene,  and  much  interested  in  his  affairs  since  she 
and  her  husband  had  come  from  gay  Rome  to  this 
dull  Hebrew  town,  had  slept  but  lightly  on  the 
night  whose  tragic  events  she  more  than  half  sus- 
pected. A  broken  dream,  in  which  the  figure  of 
the  Galilean  passed  and  repassed  sorrowfully,  had 
vexed  the  lady.  "  He  is  a  just  person,"  she  said  to 
her  lord ;  "  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  case." 


ON  TRIAL  375 

Pilate  entered  the  judgment  hall  in  an  uncomfort- 
able humor,  being  more  than  ready  to  dismiss  the 
complaint  against  the  Nazarene.  But  he  perceived, 
at  a  glance,  that  he  had  to  encounter  the  solid  front 
of  the  inexorable  Hebrew  will.  The  nation  had  its 
mind  made  up.  Great  was  Rome,  but  she  should 
not  save  the  heretic.  The  walls  of  the  Pra3toriuni 
told  ready  tales,  and  it  soon  began  to  be  whispered 
in  the  streets  that  Jesus  was  actually,  though  still 
not  formally,  doomed. 

It  was  then,  when  wavering  hope  first  fainted  in 
the  hearts  of  his  friends,  that  a  cringing  figure 
crawled  into  the  presence  of  Caiaphas,  and  a  shak- 
ing hand  flung  on  the  marble  pavement  at  the  High- 
priest's  feet,  the  silver  paid  by  the  church  for  the 
betrayal  of  the  great  Rabbi,  and  hurled  back  into 
her  treasury  by  a  belated  remorse.  Who  in  the 
council  of  the  nation  had  a  moment  to  spare  for 
the  scruples  of  a  cast-off  tool  ?  "  Push  him  aside, 
like  the  blood-money  rolling  at  his  feet !  Send  a 
servant  to  gather  up  the  silver,  for  it  is  accursed, 
being  the  price  of  blood.  The  holy  treasury  of  the 
Temple  may  not  receive  it  back.  When  we  have 
attended  to  more  important  matters,  we  will  devote 
the  sum  to  some  estimable  charity,  —  such,  for 
instance,  as  a  burial-place  for  paupers,  a  worthy 
cause  needing  furtherance  in  Jerusalem." 

Nobody  noticed  the  most  wretched  man  in  Pales- 
tine, as  he  fled  out  of  the  city,  and  blindly  pushed 
his  way  to  the  further  edge  of  the  Kedron  valley. 

But  one  thing  was  left  for  Iscariot  to  do ;  and  he 
did  it  with  a  promptness  which  calls  for  a  certain 


376  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

respect.  The  branch  of  the  tree  broke,  and  when 
he  was  found,  he  was  deep  in  the  gorge  upon  the 
jagged  rock.  But  the  fall  had  not  marred  his  face, 
and  identification  was  immediate  and  complete. 

The  morning  opened  pleasantly.  It  promised  to 
be  a  fair  day,  warm  and  still.  The  city  was  soon 
alive,  and  it  was  still  a  very  early  hour  when  the 
rumors  of  the  night's  black  story  began  to  run 
through  the  capital.  To  these  were  added  the 
presage  of  worse  to  come.  It  was  said  that  Pilate 
had  come  off  uncomfortably  from  the  forced  trial. 
The  accusations  of  the  Jewish  church  had  not  made 
much  impression  on  the  Roman  procurator.  These 
were  chiefly  three :  the  Nazarene  had  disordered 
the  nation,  he  had  forbidden  his  followers  to  pay 
their  taxes  to  the  Emperors  and  he  had  put  forth 
royal  claims  for  himself.  Pilate  could  make  little 
or  nothing  of  these  points.  He  found  the  case 
against  the  accused  so  weak  that  he  was  at  a  loss 
how  to  handle  it.  When  he  personally  put  the 
question,  "  Are  you  the  King  of  the  Jews  ? "  the 
Nazarene  ingeniously  replied :  "  You  say  so."  The 
prisoner  had  added  a  few  strange  words :  "  My 
kingdom  is  not  of  this  world,  .  .  .  else  my  servants 
would  fight ;  I  came  into  the  world  for  this  reason 
.  .  .  that  I  might  testify  to  the  truth." 

The  cultivated  pagan,  not  without  some  know- 
ledge of  the  philosophy  of  his  day,  was  interested 
in  this  reply.  "  What  is  truth  ?  "  he  mused  aloud. 
He  regarded  the  remarkable  Hebrew  with  fresh 
attention.  Something  about  the  man  touched  him. 


ON  TRIAL  377 

It  seemed  a  pity  to  execute  such  a  person  as  this,  a 
plain  religious  enthusiast,  of  a  blameless  life,  and 
of  unusual  intellect.  Really,  what  had  he  done, 
beyond  rousing  the  jealousy  of  a  sour  lot  of  Jewish 
priests  ?  The  Roman  was  puzzled,  and  uneasy. 
He  remembered  the  demi-gods  of  his  own  religion. 
"I  find  no  fault  in  the  man,"  he  said.  At  that 
moment,  some  one  in  his  hearing  remarked  that 
Jesus  was  a  Galilean. 

"  Then,"  cried  the  procurator,  with  a  smile  of 
relief,  "  turn  him  over  to  Herod  Antipas !  The  case 
belongs  to  his  jurisdiction." 

Throughout  the  city,  in  little  secret  groups,  were 
huddled  the  friends  of  Jesus.  Matters  had  gone  so 
far  that  they  dared  not  now  announce  themselves 
for  dear  life's  sake,  and  most  of  them  found  their 
lives  dearer  than  his  comfort. 

One,  a  woman,  separated  herself  from  the  others, 
and  tried  to  get  a  footing  near  him,  since  access  to 
his  presence  was  totally  denied  her.  But  the  crowd, 
that  had  begun  to  surge  excitedly,  forced  her  back. 
Loud  voices  round  her  said : 

"  They  take  him  to  Herod !  " 

She  pushed  on  with  the  feeble  step  of  a  middle- 
aged  woman,  made  old  by  suffering  before  her  time. 
Now  the  current  of  the  stream  of  people  turned, 
and  she  found  herself  borne  in  the  direction  of  the 
palace  of  the  Maccabees,  where  Herod,  having  come 
to  town  to  celebrate  the  Passover,  had  taken  up  his 
quarters. 

The  palace  glittered  in  the  sun  with  a  forbidding 


378  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS    CHRIST 

cheerfulness.  Its  broad  approach  was  decorated 
by  imported  shrubs  and  trees  descended  from  the 
days  of  Solomon.  Under  their  cool  shadow  a  file 
of  guardsmen  tramped.  The  representatives  of  the 
Hebrew  church  followed  remotely,  with  civic  dis- 
order of  step.  These  did  not  enter  the  palace,  nor 
did  they  set  foot  in  the  prsetorium.  They  were 
excellent  churchmen.  They  would  not  defile  them- 
selves, on  Passover  week,  by  crossing  a  heathen 
threshold. 

The  watcher  had  one  distant  glimpse  of  a  tall 
figure,  chained,  and  closely  guarded,  and  walking 
with  difficulty. 

"  He  will  never  know  that  I  am  here,"  she  thought. 

The  woman  followed  blindly ;  she  felt  as  if  his 
chains  dragged  on  her  body,  making  one  prisoner  of 
the  two.  It  was  his  mother. 

A  gentle  hand  touched  her  robe,  and  turning,  she 
saw  the  protecting  face  of  her  son's  dearest  disciple. 
John  stood  silently  beside  her. 

Painful  rumors  came  from  the  palace.  One 
could  scarcely  force  the  mind  to  believe  them,  they 
were* so  harsh.  It  was  said  that  Herod,  curious  and 
talkative  at  first,  had  lapsed  into  petty  mockeries 
and  torments,  unworthy  of  the  meanest  mind  in 
Palestine.  It  was  said  — 

Suddenly,  down  the  marble  steps,  the  people  saw 
the  military  movement  stirring  once  again.  Tossed 
from  the  tetrarch  to  the  governor,  bandied  between 
Home  and  Israel,  the  worry  of  the  law,  the  case 
went  back. 


ON  TRIAL  379 

The  Nazarene  was  walking  weakly  down  the  long, 
shaded  avenue.  The  toy  of  whim  and  spite,  he  bore 
himself  majestically.  But  his  face  took  on  a  mortal 
white,  above  the  brilliant  robe  that  taunted  its 
piteous  color. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
GOLGOTHA 

THE  tumult  in  the  city  mounted  rapidly.  Rumor, 
for  once,  was  milder  than  the  facts.  These  began 
to  take  incredible  shapes. 

It  was  quickly  known  that  Pilate,  clinging  to  his 
reluctance  to  condemn  the  Nazarene,  had  fallen  back 
upon  the  politic  Roman  custom  which  pardoned  one 
Hebrew  criminal  on  Passover  week.  There  lay  in 
the  dungeon  of  Herod  a  troublesome  fellow,  a  noted 
revolutionist,  under  sentence  for  murder ;  and  pass- 
ing, strangely  enough,  by  an  ingenious  alias,  as  Bar- 
Abbas,  the  son  of  the  father.  The  procurator  was 
bewildered  when,  having,  in  accordance  with  the 
traditions  of  the  great  anniversary,  recommended 
the  release  of  Jesus,  there  came  back  to  him  the  de- 
mand that  he  should  pardon  the  murderer  instead. 

Pilate  was  plainly  at  his  wits'  end;  these  had 
drawn  him  into  a  difficulty  from  which  they  proved 
unable  to  free  him.  It  was  said  that  he  made 
earnest,  even  eager  efforts  to  save  the  Nazarene 
from  the  fate  that  was  upon  him.  It  was  noted  that 
the  governor  vacillated  over  the  case,  and  indeed, 
pleaded  for  the  prisoner.  It  was  known  that  but 
for  the  officers  of  the  national  church  the  Roman 
might  have  saved  the  life  of  the  great  Hebrew,  — 


GOLGOTHA  381 

to  what  a  consequence,  who  can  say  ?  The  story  of 
the  world's  future  depended  on  the  decision  of  this 
one  man.  But  Rome  was  passing  her  day  of  de- 
cided wills.  Firmness  was  going  out  of  fashion  in 
the  enervated  national  character.  Pilate  was  a  pol- 
itician, harried  between  a  turbulent,  coerced  peo- 
ple and  an  unreasonable  and  exacting  government. 
Annoyed  and  unhappy,  he  threw  up  the  game  at 
last,  and  yielded  to  the  clamor  of  the  Jewish  nation. 

He  yielded  to  the  people ;  but  the  people  yielded 
to  the  priests.  These  pious  incendiaries  fired  the 
popular  feeling,  steadily  and  stolidly.  They  would 
take  no  alternative ;  they  would  listen  to  no  compro- 
mise. They  wrought  the  mob  to  a  religious  frenzy, 
and  the  Nazarene  went  down  before  it. 

The  nearest  friends  of  Jesus  closed  together. 
They  made  a  little  band  and  kept  as  near  him  as 
they  dared,  watching  the  prsetorium  for  sight  or 
news  of  him.  The  streets  were  now  full  to  bursting, 
and  movement  became  more  and  more  difficult.  It 
was  still  early,  with  such  monstrous  rapidity  had 
the  sham  trial  of  the  Nazarene  proceeded.  As  the 
morning  advanced,  the  clamor  in  front  of  the  palace 
grew  to  alarming  proportions.  Suddenly  the  yells 
and  shouts  of  the  mob  became  articulate.  Two  ter- 
rible words  formed  themselves  out  of  the  general 
roar.  Which  among  those  who  loved  the  Rabbi 
best  was  the  first  to  understand  what  those  words 
meant  ?  They  turned,  each  man  and  woman  of  them, 
instinctively,  to  spare  his  mother.  It  was  too  late 
for  that.  Were  her  ears  a  little  dulled  by  time  and 
trouble  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  Mary  of  Nazareth  said  no 


382  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

word,   while  the  air  of  Jerusalem  quivered  to  the 
laceration  of  the  outcry  :  — 
"  Crucify  I  CRUCIFY  him  !  " 

Pilate  came  to  the  balcony  of  the  great  palace  of 
Herod.  The  superb  building  blazed  in  the  strength- 
ening sunlight.  The  court  room  lay  mistily  within. 
Guardsmen  covered  every  exposed  spot,  —  porticoes, 
steps,  avenues  ;  even  the  roof  was  armed.  No  one 
knew  how  the  day's  riot  would  result. 

The  Eoman  governor  had  a  worried  look.  The 
people  saw  that  he  was  agitated.  A  liveried  slave 
brought  him  a  basin  and  ewer,  and  began  to  pour 
water  on  his  unsteady  hands.  Pilate  held  them  up, 
dripping  in  the  morning  light.  They  were  white, 
delicate  hands ;  the  jewels  on  his  fingers  answered 
gayly  to  the  sun. 

"  I  wash  my  hands  !  I  have  washed  them  of  this 
innocent  blood !  "  said  Pilate.  He  spoke  theatri- 
cally. But  he  was  in  earnest,  as  the  theatrical  may  be. 

Then  there  rose  from  the  throat  of  the"  Hebrew 
people,  on  their  holy  week,  one  long,  sinister  cry. 
Baser  was  never  uttered  by  any  nation. 

"  His  blood  be  upon  us,  and  upon  our  children !  " 

A  centurion  came  up  at  this  moment  and  roughly 
ordered  back  a  little  group  of  Hebrews  who  had  at- 
tracted his  attention  by  their  agitated  appearance, 
and  their  restraint  of  manner.  A  chance  word  of  a 
bystander  caused  the  officer  to  follow  them  with  dark 
curiosity,  but  the  person  whom  he  sought  was  not 
among  them.  For  their  Lord's  own  sake,  his  friends 


GOLGOTHA  383 

at  Bethany  had  not  shown  themselves.  The  pre- 
sence of  Lazarus  in  the  capital  would  have  infuri- 
ated the  Sanhedrin,  and  would  have  hastened  the 
end,  or  deepened  the  sufferings,  of  the  gentle  life 
with  which  his  own  was  so  marvelously  inwound. 
Lazarus  accepted  the  look  of  being  neglectful  and 
ungrateful,  that  he  might  offer  the  fact  of  loyalty. 

But  where  was  Mary?  Bearing  her  part  in  this 
cruel  dilemma,  with  strength,  with  sweetness,  in 
silence,  —  hidden  somewhere,  invisible  to  Jesus, 
watching,  listening,  with  eyes  to  which  the  mercy  of 
tears  was  denied.  No  woman  in  Palestine  —  hav- 
ing set  apart  the  mother  of  Jesus  in  her  solitary 
sacredness — endured  what  the  sister  of  Lazarus 
did  that  day,  and  lived  to  know  that  she  had  en- 
dured it,  and  yet  that  she  could  not  die. 

Again  on  the  portico  of  the  palace  appeared  the 
irresolute  figure  of  the  procurator.  But  this  time 
he  was  pitiably  accompanied.  When  the  mob  be- 
gan to  divine  how,  and  by  whom,  the  terrible  cry 
arose  once  more :  — 

"  Crucify  !  CRUCIFY  !  " 

Pilate  drew  back  with  a  gesture  half  dramatic, 
half  sincere.  At  a  sign  from  him,  one  in  the  back- 
ground was  thrust  forward  by  military  hands. 

"  Ecce  Homo  !  "  cried  the  Roman  loudly. 

There  fell  upon  all  the  people  a  sudden  and  solemn 
hush.  For  the  sight  that  they  saw  moved  the  basest 
soul  in  the  multitude,  and  the  witnesses  of  it  who 
were  the  least  unworthy  painfully  carried  its  repro- 
duction to  their  last  dream. 


384  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Jesus  stood  patiently,  plainly  to  be  seen,  —  a  tall 
man,  symmetrically  formed,  in  the  vigor  of  his 
youth.  A  robe  of  crimson  purple  dashed  royal 
color  upon  him.  There  was  blood  upon  his  brow, 
and  drops  which  his  chained  hands,  hanging  heav- 
ily, could  not  wipe  away,  thickened  upon  his  cheeks. 
A  mutter  rustled  through  the  crowd  when  it  was 
seen  that  a  chaplet  of  thorns,  woven  in  semblance  of 
a  crown,  had  been  violently  pressed,  by  rude  hands, 
into  his  temples.  It  was  soon  perceived,  from  his 
evident  physical  suffering,  that  worse  had  been  done 
to  the  man.  He  had  passed  through  what  was 
called  the  "  intermediate  death."  The  penal  scourge 
of  the  times  was  often  a  severe  weapon,  —  a  leathern 
strap,  studded  with  spikes  of  iron  or  of  bone ;  nor 
was  it  wielded  with  a  merciful  hand. 

The  sensitive  flesh  of  the  Nazarene  quivered  yet. 
.  .  .  His  body  was  slightly  bowed  as  if  it  still  bent 
forward  in  the  instinctive  attitude  of  one  who  would, 
but  cannot,  avert  blows.  This  detracted  somewhat 
from  his  height,  but  nothing  from  his  kingly  de- 
meanor. His  head  rose  nobly  from  his  delicate, 
bared  throat.  His  dark,  brown  hair  and  beard, 
curling  and  soft,  finely  framed  a  face  that  Palestine 
had  loved  before  she  hated,  and  which  Rome  re- 
spected while  she  feared.  His  features  were  strong, 
but  as  soon  as  one  had  said  this,  one  perceived  that 
they  were  fine.  There  was  not  a  weak  line  in  them, 
but  there  was  not  a  rude  one.  There  shone  upon 
the  man  the  light  of  such  a  stainless  imagination, 
as  seemed  almost  incompatible  with  the  force  and 
experience  which  he  plainly  possessed.  This  look 


GOLGOTHA  385 

was  something  before  which  the  clearest  heart  felt 
clouded.  It  caused  a  strange,  personal  discomfort 
in  one  who  was  not  too  dull  to  be  aware  of  it. 

His  lips,  exquisitely  cut,  trembled  to  every  stir  of 
feeling ;  but  his  chin  had  the  moulding  of  a  great 
will.  His  eyes,  large  and  luminous,  burned  from 
sockets  sunken  by  suffering.  In  their  expression 
was  something  ineffable.  Not  a  spark  of  resentment 
sprang  from  their  inner  stars.  Unfathomable  pity, 
deep  below  deep,  rayed  from  them.  He  looked  as 
if  he  could  have  taken  his  torturers  to  his  heart,  and 
forgiven  them  before  they  asked  it. 

Signs  of  what  he  had  endured  he  could  not  sup- 
press, and  his  face  was  very  haggard.  The  most 
pathetic  thing  about  it  was  the  indication  that  he 
had  not  slept ;  that  he  had  endured  much,  and  must 
endure  worse,  with  nerves  shaken  to  their  utmost, 
and  brain  reeling.  His  whole  physical  system  went 
to  his  therefore  tenfold  torment,  unfortified  by  nat- 
ural, human  rest.  Out  of  that  mass  of  many  thou- 
sands, this  occurred,  possibly,  to  two  or  three  minds. 

Now,  full  in  his  wasted  face,  from  uncounted 
throats  the  roar  went  up  again  : 

"  We  have  a  law  !  .  .  .  He  made  himself  the  Son 
of  God.  He  ought  to  die  !  " 

It  was  between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning  when  the  word  went  forth  that  even  the 
allowable  respite  of  two  days  between  sentence  and 
execution  was  refused  ;  and  that  the  man  and  the 
cross  —  his  last,  his  dumb  companion  —  had  come 
together. 


386  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS   CHRIST 

Crucifixion  was  not  a  Jewish  death-penalty,  nor 
was  it,  at  that  time,  the  favorite  that  it  later  became 
with  Rome,  when  Hebrew  souls  went  up  by  thou- 
sands from  Roman  crosses  ;  and  when  one  of  those 
ghastly,  historic  retributions,  which  nations,  like 
individuals,  sometimes  undergo,  avenged  the  Naza- 
rene. 

For  this  blameless  man  had  been  reserved  the 
exceptional  death ;  that  of  the  lowest  shame,  that  of 
the  sorest  torment. 

The  day  was  as  fair  as  it  had  promised,  and  there 
was  a  show  of  happy  sunlight  upon  his  face  and  fig- 
ure when  he  was  led  out  of  the  palace  of  Herod 
towards  the  narrow,  arched  street,  known  for  his 
sake,  from  that  time,  as  the  Via  Dolorosa. 

The  mob  had  a  glimpse  of  his  peaceful,  melan- 
choly face  as  the  cross  was  adjusted  by  leathern 
straps  to  his  arras  and  shoulders.  A  few,  more 
thoughtful  than  the  mass,  observed  how  exhausted 
he  looked. 

He  had  but  a  very  short  distance  to  walk  to  the 
hill  then  in  use  as  the  place  of  common  execution. 
It  lay  in  a  northwesterly  direction  from  the  Temple. 
It  was  scarcely  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  Great 
surprise  was  felt,  when  the  cry  came  up  from  the 
following  crowd : 

"  He  cannot  do  it !  He  has  dropped.  The  man 
is  too  weak  to  carry  his  own  cross  !  " 

It  was  soon  known  that  a  stranger  from  Cyrene, 
coming  into  the  city,  and  meeting  the  brutal  proces- 
sion, had  been  arrested,  and  forced  by  the  Roman 


GOLGOTHA  387 

guards  to  bear  the  burden,  under  which  the  con- 
demned had  sunken.  No  one  had  understood  be- 
fore how  far  the  strength  of  the  Nazarene  was  gone. 

In  every  mob  there  is  hidden  the  warmth  of  some 
human  mercy ;  and  as  the  gentle  prisoner  went  to 
his  death,  the  voices  of  the  Hebrew  women  arose, 
wailing.  He  had  cared  for  them,  and  blessed  their 
wretched  lives  in  so  many  ways  that  it  was  hard  to 
say  which  of  all  his  kindnesses  was  the  kindest,  or 
which  of  his  wonders  had  been  the  most  wonderful. 
He  had  cured  their  sick,  he  had  saved  their  dissi- 
pated, he  had  loved  their  children,  he  had  poured 
out  his  exquisite  sympathy  upon  their  unknown 
griefs.  For  the  heart-break  that  only  women  know, 
for  the  woe  that  women  of  their  times  endured,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  without  complaint,  he  had  been 
divinely  sorry.  He  had  been  the  only  man  who  ever 
understood. 

The  women  sobbed  and  moaned  bitterly,  and  cov- 
ered their  faces  with  their  robes,  and  their  cry  went 
up  to  heaven  against  the  men  who  had  done  this 
murder. 

Then  Jesus,  when  he  heard  the  women  weeping, 
forgot  himself,  and  turned  to  comfort  them.  And 
he  guarded  them  and  warned  them  against  troubles 
and  perils  of  the  future,  known,  it  seemed,  only  to 
himself  ;  but  which  afterward,  as  he  had  said,  fell 
heavily  upon  them  and  their  hapless  children. 

And  the  women  wept  the  more,  —  not  for  their 
own  sakes,  but  for  his,  —  because  he  forgot  himself 
and  remembered  them,  in  an  hour  when  all  men 
would  have  called  it  only  natural  if  he  had  forgotten 


388  THE  STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

everything  in  heaven  and  earth,  except  his  own 
emergency.  This  was  now  past  all  human  hope. 
For  the  great  heretic  there  could  be  no  reprieve. 

There  was  in  Jerusalem  something  like  an  asso- 
ciation of  Hebrew  ladies,  organized  for  the  purpose 
of  relieving  the  sufferings  of  those  condemned  to 
lingering  deaths.  The  use  of  anodynes  was  their 
chief  or  only  practical  method  of  doing  this  ;  and  a 
mixture  of  myrrh  and  strong  wine  was  found  most 
helpful  to  the  tortured.  The  executive  department 
of  this  feminine  charity  was  delegated  to  men. 

The  women  who  had  followed  Jesus,  loving  and 
mourning  him,  were  distressed  when  they  learned 
that  the  Nazarene  declined  their  anodyne.  After  he 
had  been  told  of  its  nature,  no  one  could  persuade 
him  to  touch  it.  At  whatever  cost,  he  chose  con- 
sciousness as  the  road  to  death.  It  was  said  that 
his  convictions  refused  him  the  right  to  curtail  any 
form  of  suffering  which  God  allotted  him.  This  was 
a  strange  thing.  Who  could  understand  it  ? 

It  was  now  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The 
little,  sarcastic  revenge  of  Pilate,  on  the  prominent 
Jews  who  had  forced  him  into  an  unpleasant  posi- 
tion, had  been  affixed  to  the  top  of  the  cross.  It 
was  ingeniously  written,  for  the  benefit  of  a  mixed 
population,  in  three  languages,  —  Latin,  Greek,  and 
Aramaean.  This  inscription  set  forth,  as  was  usual, 
the  charge  under  which  the  condemned  was  to  die. 

A  committee  of  Hebrew  priests  had  hurried  an- 
grily to  the  procurator. 

"Take  down  the  titulus!"  they  demanded ;•"  it 


GOLGOTHA  389 

is  offensive  to  us  to  say  that  he  is  King  of  the  Jews. 
Say  that  he  claimed  to  be.  Re-write  the  titulus  !  " 

But  Pilate  laughed. 

Baffled  and  stung,  a  number  of  very  religious 
Jews  ran  up  towards  the  place  of  execution,  to  see 
for  themselves  what  was  happening.  The  priests 
could  not  follow,  for  it  was  unlawful  to  defile  them- 
selves with  the  associations  of  death,  and  at  Passover 
time.  These  pious  persons  climbed  to  the  walls  of 
the  Temple  area ;  and  there,  as  the  April  morning 
broadened  cheerfully,  they  sat  in  the  pleasant  light 
and  feasted  upon  what  they  saw.  Golgotha  was 
quite  within  their  range  of  vision.  They  watched 
the  scene,  in  all  its  details,  as  long  as  they  could 
see. 

A  messenger,  running,  came  breathless  back  to 
them.  They  hurled  ravenous  questions  at  him. 

"  When  the  cross  was  lifted,  —  what  did  you 
hear?" 

"  Strange  words." 

"  Tell  us  them  !  Give  us  the  words  !  What  did 
he  say?" 

And  the  messenger,  dropping  his  voice  for  uncon- 
trollable awe,  gave  them  the  words.  "  As  the  Lord 
liveth,  the  man  did  say :  l  Father,  forgive  them,  for 
they  know  not  what  they  do.' ' 

The  priests  glanced  over  their  shoulders,  and 
each  man  saw  that  the  others  had  turned  white  to 
the  lips.  The  oldest  averted  his  face.  The  rest 
gazed  on. 

Jesus,  on  Golgotha,  looked   down   and  off.     He 


390  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

saw  the  city  and  the  Temple  shining  in  the  light  of 
life  and  spring.  .  .  .  On  the  walls  and  pinnacles  he 
saw  moving  figures,  and  perceived  that  his  agonies 
were  studied  by  the  clergy  of  his  church. 

Below,  he  saw  his  worn,  blue  robe  in  the  hands  of 
the  soldiers,  who  were  casting  lots  for  his  tunic. 

Beyond,  up  the  wooded  slopes  of  Olivet,  lay  un- 
seen Bethany.  His  dimming  eye  wandered  over 
the  crest  of  the  horizon  towards  beautiful  Galilee ; 
there  came  upon  his  confused  senses  a  breath  from 
his  dear  lake,  seventy  miles  away. 

He  seemed,  for  a  moment,  to  be  preaching  in  his 
own  boat.  Some  sick  persons  were  brought  to  him, 
on  the  shore,  and  a  merciful  instinct  caused  him  to 
move  his  hands,  as  if  he  would  heal  the  sufferers. 

The  anguish  of  the  form  of  death  which  forbids 
the  victim  even  to  writhe  recalled  his  drifting  mind. 
It  could  not  float  far,  for  his  brain  was  strong  and 
clear.  He  retained  throughout  his  torment  his  own 
self-possession.  He  looked  upon  the  people,  thinking 
of  them  in  his  favorite  word.  What  a  "  multitude  " 
they  were !  Had  they  all  come  out  to  see  him  suf- 
fer? It  would  have  been  something  if  they  had  not 
taunted  him  so ! 

He  recognized  faces  among  them,  —  this  one  he 
had  comforted  in  a  great  sorrow ;  that  one  he  had 
cured  of  a  cruel  disease ;  he  identified  persons  whom 
he  had  seen  often  in  his  audiences,  and  who  had 
believed  in  him  and  trusted  him.  He  saw  that  they 
were  classifying  him,  now,  with  the  common  felons 
who  occupied  the  crosses  at  his  right  hand  and  at 
his  left. 


GOLGOTHA  391 

Suddenly  he  saw  women  pressing  as  near  the 
cross  as  they  were  allowed  ;  faces  familiar  to  his 
childhood  were  in  the  group  ;  and  there  was  one  — 
she  came  from  Magdala ;  he  had  saved  her  from 
great  misfortunes.  She  had  remembered  it,  and 
had  cared  enough  to  be  near  him  at  the  end.  He 
was  touchingly  grateful  for  this  sign  that  he  was 
not  quite  forgotten.  And  there  —  God  pity  her !  — 
there  was  his  mother.  Who  was  beside  her  ?  The 
dear  disciple  stood  looking  at  his  Lord.  The  face 
of  John  was  like  a  cast  moulded  out  of  love  that 
cannot  act. 

Across  the  countenance  of  Jesus  passed  the  sem- 
blance of  one  of  his  most  radiant  smiles,  such  as 
those  remembered  who  knew  him  in  the  affectionate 
relations  of  life.  Many  persons  distinctly  heard  the 
faint  words  by  which  he  commended  his  mother  to 
the  protection  of  his  friend,  — 

"  He  is  your  son."  ..."  Take  her  ;  she  is  your 
mother." 

It  was  not  unusual  for  the  crucified  to  linger 
for  days,  and  surprise  penetrated  the  onlookers 
when  they  perceived  that  the  sensitive  Nazarene  was 
already  sinking.  He  had  not  been  under  torture 
for  yet  six  hours,  but  the  signs  of  coming  dissolu- 
tion were  apparent  even  now. 

Since  noon  the  brilliant  sun  had  deadened.  At 
first  there  were  no  clouds,  and  observant  persons 
cast  anxious  glances  at  the  sky  which  had  taken 
on  a  coppery  color.  Darkness  had  indeed  begun. 
It  was  not  yet  mid-afternoon,  but  all  the  world 
was  blackening  fiercely.  Lurid  redness  gashed  the 


392  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

heavens  ;  it  was  as  if  they  had  been  splashed  with 
blood. 

Now,  between  the  crucified,  above  the  heads  of 
the  living,  an  awful  conversation  was  taking  place. 
From  one  of  the  condemned  felons,  taunts  were 
overheard : 

"  Then,  why  do  you  not  save  yourself,  and  us  ?  " 

Eeproaches  for  this  brutality  issued  from  the  dry 
lips  of  the  other,  a  compeer  in  some  dark  past.  It 
was  observed  that  this  man  addressed  the  sinking 
Nazarene.  He  replied  faintly,  offering  some  devout 
comfort  to  his  low  companion  in  agony. 

This  exquisite  self-forgetfulness  did  not  stop  the 
ghastly  hilarity,  which  still  amused  the  mob  at  inter- 
vals, as  it  had  all  day. 

"  Why  do  you  not  come  down  from  the  cross,  you 
Son  of  God?" 

Why  did  he  not  ?     How  simple  a  deed  that  were ! 

Where  were  the  forces  of  which  he  had  spoken  in 
Gethsemane,  in  which  he  believed,  but  with  whose 
mystical  reinforcement  he  chose  to  dispense  ?  Silent, 
in  unseen  spaces,  obeying  unknown  laws,  marshaled 
but  unsummoned,  thrilling  for  his  command,  they 
awaited  it. 

The  taunts  came  up : 

"  You  saved  other  people !  Now  let  us  see  you 
save  yourself !  " 

His  lips,  parching  with  the  thirst  of  crucifixion, 
moved  painfully.  There  drove  across  his  tortured 
brain  the  thought  of  the  consequences  if  he  said  the 
word  that  burned  for  utterance,  if  he  gave  the  sign 
that  battled  through  his  being  for  expression. 


GOLGOTHA  393 

What  did  he  hear?  Was  it  the  dying  throb  of  his 
own  great  heart  ?  Was  it  the  voice  of  God  ?  or  the 
wail  of  man? 

"  Thou  shalt  carry  the  sins  of  the  world.  .  .  . 
Thou  Lamb  of  God  !" 

Jesus  opened  his  closing  eyes.  They  were  fading 
fast,  and  the  figures  in  the  moving  mass  before  him 
were  scarcely  visible.  He  could  see  his  mother's 
upturned  face.  He  could  yet  feel  upon  him  the 
eyes  of  John,  whose  expression  bore  to  him  the 
yearning  of  the  frail,  human  love  that  might  fail 
him,  and  grieve  him,  but  which  loved  him  still,  and 
only  asked  to  be  trusted  in  its  weakness  and  forgiven 
for  its  faultiness,  because  it  was  human,  and  because 
it  was  love. 

But  the  faces  of  his  dearest  passed  on  into  the 
universal  darkness,  and  went  out.  They  were  re- 
placed by  ineffable  visions.  The  stored  strength  of 
a  lifetime  of  prayer  lifted  all  his  nature,  and  shut  it 
in  with  God.  Who  forgot?  Who  deserted?  His 
Father  loved  .  .  . 

Now  all  the  woe  of  souls  unborn  thrust  itself  upon 
his  consciousness.  His  own  age,  his  own  people, 
had  slain  him.  But  he  was  not  dying  for  his  own 
age.  All  times,  all  peoples,  counted  in  the  cost  of 
his  anguish.  He  felt  the  human  exigencies  in  which 
belief  would  be  hard,  and  scorn  of  the  invisible  nat- 
ural ;  he  thought  of  the  weakened,  and  the  pursued 
by  trouble,  and  of  those  who  would  find  their  suf- 
fering greater  than  their  endurance.  He  remem- 
bered that  it  was  his  to  show  them  how  to  trust 
\n  God.  .  .  . 


394  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

A  deadly  darkness  had  swept  down  upon  the 
crosses ;  a  roar  that  was  neither  tempest,  nor  thun- 
der, occupied  the  air.  In  the  swift  and  startling 
gloom  his  face  could  be  seen,  struck  out  distinctly 
by  inexplicable  light.  Before  its  expression,  all  the 
people  fell  upon  the  ground,  those  who  had  hated 
him  praying  Jehovah  to  spare  their  brutal  souls  ; 
but  those  who  loved  him  thought  only  of  his,  and 
prayed  for  him. 

Ah  God,  what  a  cry ! 

.  .  .  Uttered  with  the  last  energy  which  assists 
dissolution,  spoken  in  the  tongue  of  his  youth,  and 
of  the  lowly  people  for  whom  he  had  cared,  the 
piteous  words  which  one  who  loves  him  sensitively 
would  not,  even  yet,  urge  the  refusing  lips  to  repeat, 
carried  the  last  surprise  of  his  broken  heart. 

As  his  unanswered  question  went  up  from  the 
cross  to  the  heavens,  the  darkness  deepened  to  fright. 
The  wind  arose,  but  fell  at  once  to  ominous  calm. 
Then  the  lips  of  the  earth  opened  and  spoke. 

In  the  unnatural  dark,  all  the  people  ran  hither 
and  thither,  and  could  not  see  one  another's  faces. 
But  his  upon  the  cross  remained  still  visible,  hang- 
ing a  little  higher  than  their  own,  and  smitten  out 
in  light. 

The  earthquake  tore  the  rocks  of  Golgotha,  and 
the  walls  of  the  city  reeled,  and  stones  which  sealed 
the  tombs  in  ancient  burial  gardens  were  loosened. 
In  some  instances  they  were  thrust  off,  and  sepulchres 
left  open  to  the  recoiling  gaze. 

The  panic  on  Golgotha  shook  from  centre  to  cir- 
cumference of  the  half -blinded  crowd.  The  people 


GOLGOTHA  395 

fled  in  horror,  anyhow,  anywhere,  as  they  could ;  as 
they  ran,  they  beat  their  breasts,  and  uttered  short, 
terrified  sounds. 

The  Roman  officer,  who  had  been  posted  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross,  fell  flat  with  shame  and  terror. 

"  It  was  the  Son  of  God  !  "  he  cried. 

When  the  priests,  groping  through  the  prolonged 
darkness,  huddled  together  in  the  Temple,  they 
found  a  fearful  thing.  The  great  and  sacred  veil, 
hanging  before  the  Holy  of  Holies,  was  rent  across 
its  blue  and  purple,  white  and  crimson  folds,  straight 
through  its  embroidered,  golden  cherubim  —  torn 
from  end  to  end. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE   RESURRECTION   AND   THE   LIFE 

WHEN  the  darkness  lifted  from  the  land,  the 
crucified  Nazarene  did  not  stir. 

Was  he  dead  so  soon?  There  were  those  who 
were  inclined  to  complain  of  him,  because  his  sen- 
sitive and  exhausted  frame  did  not  support  torture 
longer.  Even  in  death,  he  offended  his  tormentors. 
They  took  the  quickest  possible  steps  to  make  sure 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  gone,  beyond  a  question. 

"  Not  a  bone  of  him  shall  be  broken  "  had  sung  an 
ancient  poet  of  his  people,  in  the  days  when  prophecy 
and  literature  clasped  strong  hands. 

A  Roman  soldier  stood  on  Golgotha  with  up- 
raised arm  to  apply  the  test  of  the  crurifragium  to 
the  motionless  body  of  Jesus.  But  he  laid  his  mal- 
let down  with  uneasy  surprise,  and  took  his  spear 
instead.  Did  there  linger  in  the  vigorous  Galilean 
the  innermost  ember  of  life  ?  The  trained  'military 
hand  made  no  mistake  in  giving  the  vital  wound. 
Then  the  spear  dropped  as  the  mallet  had,  and  the 
Roman  wished  he  had  not  marred  the  man.  For 
there  was  something  that  he  could  not  understand 
about  the  manner  of  this  death. 

It  has  since  been  said  that  there  were  certain  phy- 
siological evidences  that  the  crucified  Rabbi  had, 


THE  RESURRECTION  AND   THE  LIFE       397 

indeed,  died  most  piteously,  yielding  to  a  mental 
agony  which,  in  rare  cases,  has  been  known  to  cause 
a  lesion  of  the  central  organ  of  life.  It  has  long 
been  believed  by  many  who  would  have  wished  to 
believe  otherwise,  that  Jesus,  in  the  literal  sense  of 
the  words,  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  broken-hearted  keep  their  own  counsel ;  and 
the  secret  is  his  yet.  By  whatever  road  he  trod  the 
last  wilderness  that  lay  between  his  lonely  life  and 
its  appalling  end,  the  end  had  come.  Follower  and 
foe,  Jew  and  Gentile,  accepted  the  fact :  Jesus  the 
Christ  was  dead. 

Now,  upon  the  murdered  man  was  poured  a  swift 
tenderness  which  was  offered  to  him  —  as  it  is  to 
many  a  sensitive  and  deserted  soul  —  too  late. 

A  prominent  Hebrew  who  had  long  loved  the 
Rabbi  in  silence  pushed  his  influence  to  the  full, 
demanded  the  body  of  the  Nazarene,  and  obtained 
from  the  Roman  government  its  immediate  posses- 
sion. He  offered  his  own  family  burial  place,  a  new 
tomb,  that  death  had  never  occupied.  The  eminent 
citizen  achieved  what  lowlier  friends  could  not  have 
accomplished,  and  the  last  dignities  were  offered 
without  disturbance  to  the  body  of  Jesus  before  the 
Sabbath  sun  had  set.  This  was  as  the  law  compelled. 

The  trembling  fingers  of  his  chosen  friends  drew 
out  the  spikes  from  the  feet  that  had  trodden  Pales- 
tine over  only  to  do  it  kindnesses,  and  bathed  the 
hurts  in  the  hands  that  had  healed  and  blessed,  but 
never  harmed.  As  these  were  composed  for  their 
rest,  one  who  had  cared  for  him  very  much  thought 
how  often  they  had  been  seen  lifted  over  the  heads 


398  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

of  the  people,  while  he  prayed  that  happiness,  and 
health,  and  holiness  might  come  to  them.  The  tears 
of  loving  women  dashed  upon  his  face,  when  it  was 
drawn  down  within  their  reach.  They  who  had 
never  ventured  or  thought  to  touch  him  while  he 
was  alive,  begged  permission  to  lift  his  cold  hand  to 
their  lips.  But  his  brow  was  so  majestic  that  no 
kiss  could  intrude  upon  it.  In  death,  as  in  life,  he 
passed  alone. 

They  bore  him  to  his  garden  tomb  as  the  light 
was  striking  low  upon  the  leaves  of  trees  and  plants, 
and  upon  the  petals  of  the  closing  flowers.  They 
carried  him  in  haste  and  fear.  Only  his  bearers  and 
two  or  three  friends  accompanied  him.  With  tired 
feet  and  tender  thoughts  he  had  followed  many  a 
burial  procession.  But  Jerusalem  was  ashamed  to 
follow  his. 

Rudely  embalmed,  or  wrapped  in  such  spices  as 
could  be  hastily  procured,  and  folded  into  fair  linen, 
his  noble  body  was  left  in  the  outer  chamber  of  the 
pure,  new  sepulchre.  He  was  not  interred. 

As  the  round  stone  rolled  into  its  place  the  sun 
sank.  And  the  Hebrew  nation  piously  set  itself  to 
the  observance  of  High  Sabbath ;  for  it  was  Holy 
Week. 

But  there  were  ingenious  minds  among  their 
priests  and  leading  men,  and  the  Roman  governor 
promptly  received  one  of  the  anxious  committees 
that  had  tried  his  patience  all  the  week. 

"  Give  us  a  watch  at  the  tomb,"  urged  the  spokes- 
man shrewdly,  "  for  the  man  has  said  strange  things ; 


THE  RESUKBECTION  AND  THE  LIFE       399 

he  did  claim  that  he  would  not  stay  in  it  three  days. 
He  has  his  friends.  They  would  steal  his  body  to 
save  his  reputation  as  a  prophet.  Give  us  guards !  " 

So  Pilate  yawned,  and  gave  them  guards,  for  he 
was  weary  of  the  subject.  And  the  tomb  was  barred 
with  a  small  stone,  which,  adjusted  to  the  disk,  held 
it  in  its  place.  A  tablet  of  moist  clay,  so  placed 
that  the  least  movement  would  break  it,  was  stamped 
with  the  imperial  seal.  The  officers  of  Rome  sat 
without  and  guarded  the  tomb. 

They  sat  there  all  night  on  duty.  The  next  day 
they  were  relieved  by  other  guards,  and  the  next 
night  the  watch  went  on  again.  So  the  Sabbath 
came  to  its  end,  and  midnight  of  Saturday  to  Sun- 
day followed. 

The  watch  were  brave  men,  and  accustomed  to 
grim  duties,  but  they  had  uncomfortable  thoughts. 
The  night  was  long,  and  there  was  no  wind.  It  was 
so  still  that  their  own  hearty  breathing  startled 
them.  The  garden  was  in  bloom  all  about  the  beau- 
tiful new  sepulchre.  The  stalks  of  shrubs  seemed  to 
stir  as  if  they  had  been  hit  by  passers ;  but  no  one 
moved.  Now  and  then  a  flower  stooped,  as  if  it  had 
been  brushed ;  but  it  had  not  been  touched.  The 
air  was  faint  with  perfume  ;  the  place  was  heavenly 
bright.  The  white  disk  that  locked  the  sepulchre 
gave  back  the  light,  as  if  it  were  a  gate  of  pearl. 

Within  the  vault,  Jesus  of  Nazareth  lay  in  state. 

It  came  on  to  be  the  hour  when  the  night  dies  and 
the  day  is  not  yet,  but  is  seen  to  be  approaching. 
The  moon  was  set.  The  cheek  of  the  East  had  be- 
gun to  pale. 

. 


400  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

The  watchmen  in  the  garden  moved  uneasily. 
Who  stepped  ?  There  was  no  one.  What  stirred  ? 
Surely,  nothing. 

They  passed  to  and  fro,  and  came  together  at  the 
mouth  of  the  sepulchre,  where  they  stood  on  guard. 

In  any  two  comrades  picked  for  united  duty,  there 
is  liable  to  be  one  finer  and  one  braver  than  the 
other.  Of  these  two  men,  he  who  was  the  quicker 
of  eye  suddenly  went  the  color  of  terror,  pointed 
with  his  spear,  and  fell. 

The  stone  that  closed  the  tomb  was  moving. 

The  other  guardsman  sprang,  with  a  Roman  oath, 
and  struck  at  the  stone  with  his  sword,  but  he  did 
not  hit  it.  The  great  disk  began  to  stir  in  its  groove 
and  slowly  rolled  out  to  one  side. 

The  moon  was  down,  but  the  sun  was  not  yet  up ; 
yet  the  garden  glowed ;  a  light  that  was  neither  of 
the  dawn  nor  of  the  sunset  rayed  upon  the  tomb. 
The  leaves  of  the  vines  that  clung  about  it  had  the 
look  that  foliage  has  when  it  is  aflame,  and  every 
flower  in  the  garden  was  a  bell  or  cup  of  fire.  .  .  . 
Glory  became  translucent ;  translucence  softly  out- 
lined — 

But  the  bolder  of  the  guards  turned  as  faint  as  his 
mate,  and  dropped  beside  him. 

Mary  called  Magdalene  came  to  the  garden,  and  it 
was  Sunday's  dawn.  She  had  not  slept.  The  night 
had  been  so  brilliant,  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  had 
sat  at  the  walls  of  Heaven.  Her  soul  was  floating; 
—  had  it  wings  ?  She  wondered  why  she  had  not 
wept.  She  thought  of  her  miserable  past  without  a 


THE  RESURRECTION  AND  THE  LIFE       401 

pang.  With  a  flight  of  joy  she  remembered  what 
the  Rabbi  had  done  for  her.  Other  women  had 
ministered  to  him,  and  loved  him :  let  them  mourn 
him  !  They  had  not  suffered  as  she  had  ;  she  felt 
as  if  it  were  hers  only  to  bless  him.  She  felt  as 
if  she  outloved  them  all  —  as,  indeed,  she  had  out- 
walked them  all,  and  so  came  first  into  the  garden. 

Silver  gray  was  sweetening  to  rose  along  the  east, 
which  was  still  dim  ;  but  the  prelude  of  the  morning 
had  begun  with  pomp.  It  would  be  a  stately  sun- 
rise. The  city  lay  melted  in  an  unusual  and  beauti- 
ful mist.  This  had  a  gentle  color,  and  gave  a  grate- 
ful indistinctness  to  the  outlines  of  the  palaces  and 
the  Temple. 

In  the  garden  the  dew  was  heavy.  The  scent  of 
the  opening  flowers  was  delicate.  There  was  such 
purity  in  the  air  that  it  was  a  delight  to  breathe. 
The  trees  were  full  of  song  birds.  Music,  perfume, 
light,  color,  flooded  the  garden,  and  rose  against  the 
solemn  shape  of  the  sepulchre. 

The  woman  crept  up  on  tiptoe,  as  one  does  who 
fears  lest  she  might  disturb  a  dear  sleeper.  She 
held  her  breath  —  ah,  what  had  happened  ?  What 
had  happened  ? 

The  guards  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  great 
disk  was  rolled  from  its  position.  The  woman  looked 
in  at  the  mouth  of  the  vault ;  the  tomb  was  open 
and  empty. 

With  her  hands  upon  her  heart,  Mary  glanced, 
and  sped  out  of  the  garden.  This  was  a  matter  for 
men.  She  ran  to  the  lodgings  of  Peter  and  the 
dear  disciple. 


402  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

"  They  have  stolen  him  !  "  she  gasped. 

Her  breath  was  gone,  and  her  courage  with  it. 
All  her  high  mood  of  the  night  and  of  the  first 
dawn  had  broken  down.  She  came  back,  walking 
weakly.  She  conld  not  keep  up  with  John,  or  with 
Peter,  who  ran  on  without  noticing  her.  She  en- 
tered the  garden  drearily. 

The  other  women  were  not  organized  like  Mary. 
They  came  up  more  deliberately,  with  their  myrrh 
and  spices  in  their  arms,  thinking  to  finish  the 
burial  preparations  that  the  Sabbath  law  had  inter- 
rupted, and  to  do  for  their  Lord  what  should  be 
done,  before  it  was  too  late.  They  were  less  sensi- 
tive, or  more  brave  than  she  whose  early  misfor- 
tunes had  shaken  body  and  soul ;  and  when  they 
saw  the  great  disk  rolled  away,  they  did  not  run. 
They  put  the  myrrh  carefully  down  upon  the  turf, 
and  stooped  and  crept  into  the  tomb.  And  so  it 
befell  them  to  see  that  which  some  of  them  were 
afraid  to  speak  of,  and  it  happened  to  them  to  hear 
that  which  others  were  more  afraid  not  to  tell.  To 
those  last,  the  world  owes  the  record  of  some  of  the 
wonderful  words  in  whose  radiant  hope  the  Chris- 
tian dead  of  centuries  have  been  laid  to  rest. 

So  the  women  came  out  of  the  tomb,  for  he  was 
not  there,  and  they,  too,  went  away. 

John  came  running  to  the  sepulchre,  and  stopped. 
Peter,  panting  heavily,  pushed  straight  in.  The 
other  followed  him  more  slowly,  and  the  two  men 
examined  the  tomb.  It  was  to  them  but  an  empty 


THE  RESURRECTION  AND  THE  LIFE       403 

vault.  They  saw  no  blinding  sights;  they  heard  no 
mysterious  words.  They  saw  the  linen  cloth  lying, 
as  fair  and  fresh  as  when  it  had  been  wound  about 
his  dear  body  —  but  nothing  more.  With  shaking 
hands  they  reverently  examined  the  grave-clothes. 

"  He  is  not  here,  "  they  said.  And  they,  too, 
had  gone  away. 

Mary  was  alone  at  last.  She  knelt  down,  gathering 
her  strength,  and  looked  into  the  tomb  for  herself. 

The  marble  slab  was  bare.  There  he  had  lain 
in  state,  awaiting  his  burial.  Beyond  was  the  crypt 
where  they  had  meant  to  inter  him  to-day.  The 
air  breathed  in  and  out  of  the  new  tomb,  as  pure 
and  strong  as  dew  and  youth.  The  morning  sun 
streamed  in.  The  sepulchre  was  empty. 

Was  it  ?  Look  again !  At  the  head  and  foot 
of  the  long,  white  slab,  brilliance  began  to  form. 
The  woman  held  her  breath,  and  called  her  courage. 
She  was  ready  to  believe  in  the  inexplicable,  but 
she  was  sore  afraid  of  it.  Yet,  as  she  gazed,  she 
ceased  to  be  afraid.  What  she  saw  seemed  to  her 
more  natural  than  any  common,  usual  thing,  that 
could  be  explained. 

Call  them  spirits,  call  them  angels,  or  name  them 
as  one  would,  these  strange,  beautiful  visions,  with 
eyes  like  the  arrows  of  the  storm,  were  messengers 
of  God.  And  God  had  never  been  explained. 
Mary  looked  at  the  spirits  confidingly.  Her  tears 
ran  down  into  a  sudden,  childlike  smile. 

"  They  have  taken  away  my  dear  Lord, "  she 
said,  "  can  you  tell  me  where  to  find  him  ?  " 


404  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

A  shadow  fell  over  her  shoulder,  and  entered  the 
tomb.  There  it  lay  solemnly.  It  was  the  shadow 
of  the  figure  of  a  man. 

She  had  thought  it  was  the  keeper  of  the  burial 
garden,  and  began  to  explain  to  him  how  and  why 
she  was  there.  Her  sobs  tore  from  her  now  so 
that  her  words  were  hard  to  understand,  and  her 
own  ears  were  deafened  by  them.  Her  eyes  were 
blinded,  too,  by  the  tears  which  she  had  kept  back 
so  long  that  they  would  have  their  way  at  last. 

She  did  not  recognize  the  stranger,  while  she 
tried  to  talk  with  him,  until  he  called  her  by  her 
own  name. 

Then  a  cry  went  up  to  the  morning  skies,  that 
arched  like  a  dome  of  joy  above  the  tomb. 

"  My  Master  !  " 

She  sprang  towards  him,  crying  and  laughing, 
and  her  words  began  to  fall  fast,  like  drops  pour- 
ing from  a  flagon  of  delight. 

"  It  is  my  dear  Lord  !    He  is  alive  /  " 

She  fell  at  his  feet,  and  stretched  up  her  arms. 
But  he  motioned  her  back. 

Now,  about  the  city,  and  throughout  Judea,  and 
in  all  Palestine,  great  things  were  said  ;  and  as 
great  were  never  said,  but  took  place  in  silence  and 
in  secrecy  ;  while  others  were  whispered  under  oath 
of  honorable  persons,  and  so  came  into  record. 

Past  many  an  ancient  tomb  whose  stones  the  earth- 
quake had  loosened  at  the  hour  when  the  Nazarene 
gave  up  his  ghost,  stole  silent  figures ;  into  many  a 


THE   RESURRECTION  AND  THE  LIFE       405 

home  where  the  bereaved  sat  desolate,  trod  soundless 
footsteps.  The  latch  lifted,  the  curtain  stirred,  the 
casement  opened ;  and  one  who  had  been  mourned 
for  years  came  in  and  took  his  old,  familiar  place, 
and  smiling,  looked  about  the  room,  to  see  if  he 
were  remembered. 

"  The  Resurrection "  had  been  a  theological 
phrase  in  Palestine,  accepted  by  some,  refused  by 
others,  and  a  puzzle  to  all.  Now  it  came  to  be 
called  a  fact  of  history.  For  the  dead  had  been 
seen  abroad,  and  recognized. 

It  also  came,  but  not  at  once,  to  be  understood 
that  this  mystery  had  some  connection  with  the  other, 
mightier  one,  which,  in  time,  absorbed  the  interest 
of  all  thoughtful  men. 

There  were  those  who  bowed  their  heads,  and 
smote  their  breasts  and  said  :  "  We  have  crucified  a 
man.  But  we  could  not  slay  a  God  !  " 

There  were  others  who  mused,  and  knew  not  what 
to  say.  These  were  less  afraid  of  not  recognizing 
a  God  than  of  deifying  a  man  ;  for  this  was  their 
nature.  And  to  all  natures,  the  life  arid  death  of  the 
great  Nazarene  remained  a  mystery. 

To  none  did  the  wonders  which  directly  succeeded 
his  death  seem  more  mysterious  at  the  time  than  to 
his  chosen  friends.  The  women  came  with  their 
joyous  testimony  ;  but  they  were  women.  The  men 
listened  to  them  in  masculine  incredulity  ;  they  had 
found  only  an  empty  tomb.  No  disci  pie  had  seen 
angels  ;  and  the  Roman  watchmen,  for  fear  of  their 
lives,  and  being  heavily  bribed,  withheld  their  star- 
tling witness,  and  thrust  out  the  report  that  the  body 


406  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

had  been  stolen  by  the  followers  of  the  Nazarene 
while  the  guards  slept  at  their  posts.  This  childish 
tale  was  instigated  by  the  priests,  and  the  pardon  of 
Pilate  to  the  offending  watchmen  was  a  part  of  the 
price. 

Thus  matters  stood  immediately  after  the  death  of 
Jesus.  Then  that  happened  which  changed  every- 
thing. 

It  was  the  late  afternoon  of  the  first  Easter,  when 
two  of  the  eleven,1  restless  with  sorrow,  went  out  by 
the  western  gate  for  a  country  walk.  They  took 
the  direction  of  a  little  place  called  Emmaus — a 
lovely  village  set  over  the  hills  in  bloom  and  green. 
Life  and  light  throbbed  in  the  soft  wind,  in  the  gen- 
tle scenery.  Thousands  of  birds  were  in  the  air. 
The  soul  of  spring  swayed  by  dreamily.  But  the 
hearts  of  the  twain  were  as  heavy  as  the  clods  of  the 
grave.  Their  Lord  was  dead. 

In  the  bewilderment  of  fresh  bereavement,  they 
talked  drearily,  —  of  him,  of  his  great  life,  of  his 
piteous  death,  of  all  that  was  precious  and  of  all  that 
was  confusing  to  them  in  his  history  ;  of  the  failure 
of  his  purposes,  of  the  ruin  of  their  hopes  and  of 
his. 

A  stranger  joined  them  as  they  were  walking,  — 
it  seemed  that  he  was  one  of  the  festive  bands  with 
which  the  suburbs  of  Jerusalem  had  been  peopled 
the  past  week —  and  entered  into  their  conversation. 
They  thought  him  a  very  ignorant  man,  though  he 
had  not  that  appearance,  for  he  questioned  them 

1  Cleopas,  and  (by  tradition)  Luke. 


THE  RESURRECTION  AND  THE  LIFE       407 

minutely  about  the  life  and  death  of  their  Rabbi. 
Was  there  a  foreigner  in  Jerusalem  who  had  not 
heard  what  had  happened?  They  answered  him 
with  a  sort  of  surprised  condescension,  but  they 
readily  began  to  talk  about  their  Lord  ;  indeed,  they 
could  not  speak  of  anything  else.  And  as  they 
strolled  and  talked,  their  feeling  about  the  stranger 
underwent  one  of  the  swift  transformations  which 
simple  minds  experience  in  the  presence  of  a  supe- 
rior. This  was  no  ordinary  tourist.  This  was  a 
master  of  knowledge.  He  spoke  of  the  Hebrew 
Messiah;  of  the  meaning  of  ancient  prophetic  po- 
etry ;  of  the  possibilities  hidden  in  the  scriptures 
of  the  race.  He  spoke  of  the  recent  events  that  had 
shaken  Palestine  —  of  the  national  hopes  and  of  the 
national  shame. 

The  two  disciples  felt  deeply  drawn  to  the  stranger ; 
their  thoughts  took  a  high  turn  ;  courage  and  faith 
swept  back  upon  their  despairing  hearts,  like  fire  from 
heaven  upon  an  abandoned  altar.  They  clung  so  to 
the  stranger  that,  when  he  would  have  left  them  and 
passed  on  up  the  country  road,  they  could  not,  would 
not,  have  it  so.  They  begged  him,  nay,  they  com- 
pelled him,  to  accept  their  hospitality.  So  he  in- 
dulged them,  smiling,  and  went  to  supper  with  them 
in  their  simple  house  of  entertainment.  There,  it 
seemed  the  only  right  thing  for  him  to  do  to  take 
the  head  of  the  table  ;  his  hosts  did  not  even  wonder 
why.  And  it  seemed  to  be  wholly  expected  that 
he  should  ask  the  blessing  of  God  upon  the  bread. 
Then  it  seemed  not  strange,  in  any  way,  when  the  two 
began  slowly  and  quietly  to  understand  who  he  was. 


408  THE   STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

How  did  this  recognition  come  about  ?  Was  it  of 
the  mind,  or  of  the  heart?  Was  it  of  the  senses,  or 
of  the  spirit?  Had  they  been  blinded  or  deafened? 
Had  he  changed,  or  was  it  they?  The  secrets  of 
approach  between  the  living  and  the  dead  were 
God's,  —  were  God's  and  his. 

Like  so  much  else  that  had  been  inexplicable, 
this,  the  utmost  mystery,  now  yielded  to  his  con- 
trol. And  they  who  loved  and  mourned  a  dead 
Christ,  lifted  their  eyes  and  perceived  that  he  was 
alive. 

Ah,  the  radiance  !  the  rapture  !  The  countenance 
that  had  been  overstrained  with  suffering  was  blind- 
ing bright.  His  wan  and  wakeful  eyes  had  taken 
on  a  look  of  rest  which  nothing  could  disturb  again. 
His  tormented  body  shone  with  such  vigor  that  it, 
seemed  as  if  every  nerve  had  forgotten  that  it  had 
ever  known  a  pang.  His  fine  lips  quivered — not 
with  pain.  When  he  smiled,  it  was  as  if  the  heart 
would  break  with  joy  to  see  him.  .  .  . 

For  forty  days  he  whom  Palestine  had  tortured 
and  slain,  trod  her  dust,  elate  and  wonderful. 

It  pleased  him  to  reveal  himself  on  many  occa- 
sions, and  by  the  witness  of  many  eyes  and  ears.  It 
has  been  recorded  that  five  hundred  persons,  at  cer- 
tain places  and  times,  met  with  personal  knowledge 
that  the  dead  Nazarene  lived  again. 

But  it  was  to  his  own  friends  that  his  heart  hur- 
ried, and  his  own  received  him  rapturously.  Once, 
in  a  manner  not  known,  he  is  thought  to  have  found 
his  way  to  comfort  heart-broken  Peter.  Once,  and 


THE   RESURRECTION  AND  THE  LIFE       409 

once  again,  in  a  fashion  that  the  whole  world  knows, 
he  came  into  the  upper  chamber  of  the  stone  house  J 
at  Jerusalem,  where  the  disciples  sat  behind  doora 
closed  and  bolted,  fearful  of  priests,  of  Rome,  and  oi 
the  people,  hiding  from  they  knew  not  what  perils^ 
and  consumed  by  misery.  Here  he  saluted  them 
audibly :  "  Peace  be  unto  you  !  "  he  said.  Here  he 
shared  their  evening  meal,  and  they  saw  him  eat, 
before  their  eyes,  the  poor  man's  fare  of  fish  and 
honey  which  was  all  they  had  to  offer.  Here  a 
mysterious  solemnity  took  place,  dimly  understood 
by  those  who  witnessed  it,  but  reverenced  by  them 
and  by  all  who  have  loved  him  since,  because  it 
proceeded  from  him. 

After  this,  he  took  the  pains  to  come  back  the 
second  time,  to  the  same  place  and  company,  be- 
cause on  his  first  appearance  the  skeptic  of  the 
group  was  absent.  He  called  on  the  distrustful 
disciple  who  demanded  for  assurance  of  his  Lord's 
identity  such  exacting  proofs  as  history  has  been 
careful  to  specify,  to  efciploy  his  own  methods  of  sat- 
isfying his  doubts.  Jesus  yielded  his  incomprehen- 
sible personality,  while  Thomas,  —  being  of  the  type 
of  mind  that  would  to-day  put  the  case  of  the  res- 
urrection of  Jesus  Christ  into  the  hands  of  experts 
in  psychological  research,  —  investigated  the  marvel 
as  he  would.  The  doubter  thrust  out  his  trembling 
fingers.  .  .  . 

There  was  the  spear-wound  made  by  Rome.  There 
were  the  torn  hands  and  feet,  mutilated  by  Israel. 
The  apparition  could  be  touched.  It  had  form,  sub- 
1  Tradition. 


410  THE  STORY  OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

stance.     It  was  a  body.     It  bore  the  likeness  of  the 
torments  with  which  life  had  seared  it.  ... 

As  the  skeptic  fell  upon  his  knees,  the  upper  room 
echoed  with  the  low  cry  with  which  the  groping  be- 
lief of  all  men  and  all  times  will  go  reaching  up  to 
mystery :  "  My  Lord  and  my  God  I  " 

The  beautiful  part  of  the  wonder  was  that  Jesus 
seemed  to  care  for  the  same  things  that  he  used  to 
care  for  before  he  had  died ;  not  only  for  the  truths 
and  the  friends,  but  for  the  places  that  he  had  loved. 

He  went  joyfully  into  Galilee,  which  had  been 
dear  to  him ;  and  there  he  expressed  wishes  that  his 
disciples  should  meet  him ;  as  they  did.  He  came 
to  the  lake  and  loved  it  and  remained  by  it  for  a 
while. 

And  when  the  puzzled  fishermen,  coming  back  to 
their  old  duties,  went  out  on  an  unsuccessful  trip, 
and  put  about,  tired  and  discouraged,  he  who  had 
so  often  met  and  helped  them  met  them  once  again 
upon  the  shore.  And  he  c£red  for  them  and  for 
their  disappointment,  and  did  them  one  of  his  own 
strange  kindnesses,  and  ate  a  meal  with  them,  as  he 
had  done  once  or  twice  before  since  his  reappearance. 

But  Peter  dashed  into  the  water,  as  he  was  apt  to 
do  if  he  were  afloat  on  any  startling  occasion,  and 
hurried,  longing,  to  his  Lord.  A  solemn  and  mem- 
orable conversation  took  place  between  them. 

Upon  these  radiant  scenes  there  fell  not  the  soft 
footfall  of  a  shadow.  All  was  as  natural,  as  peace- 
ful, as  pleasant,  as  a  safe  and  happy  life.  Indeed, 
happiness  was  a  paltry  word  by  which  to  speak  of 


THE  RESURRECTION  AND   THE   LIFE       411 

the  demeanor  and  expression  of  him  who  seemed  to 
know  celestial  delight  upon  terrestrial  ground. 

Beautiful  Galilee,  that  had  been  kinder  to  him  or 
less  unkind  than  any  other  province  in  the  land,  re- 
ceived and  kept  the  secret  of  his  movements,  when 
those  who  loved  him  best  and  saw  him  most  often 
knew  not  where  he  had  gone  or  whence  he  came 
again.  He  appeared  and  disappeared  as  he  would, 
peaceful  and  majestic. 

He  wore  something1  of  the  look  of  mysterious  joy- 
ousness  which  a  spirit  might,  if  it  had  the  opportu- 
nity, after  death,  to  come  back  to  the  scenes  that  were 
best  beloved  in  life.  But  they  who  saw  him,  and 
conversed  with  him,  and  touched  him  said  : 

"  It  is  not  a  spirit." 

What  sacred  romance,  what  solemn  delights  and 
surprises  came  into  the  lives  of  those  fishermen  for 
a  six  weeks'  span  !  There  passed  upon  the  shores 
of  Gennesaret  a  celestial  drama,  grand  and  still. 
With  every  dawn  these  rugged  men,  grown  gentle 
and  dreamy,  hushed  to  awe,  trembling  with  expec- 
tancy, awoke  to  say  :  "  Will  he  come  to-day  ?  "  At 
nightfall  they  asked  one  of  another,  "Have  you  seen 
him  ?  Have  you  ? 

But  the  time  came  when  it  was  no  longer  possible 
to  say  of  his  appearance  that  it  was  like  anything 
known  to  men,  or  imagined  by  them.  Nor  was  it 
possible  to  think  that  the  earth  could  continue  to 
hold  a  presence  such  as  his  had  now  become. 

There  fell  a  day  when  he  had  bidden  his  friends 
with  him  into  the  hills,  and  had  talked  with  them 


412  THE   STORY   OF  JESUS  CHRIST 

tenderly,  and  directed  their  future,  and  glorified  their 
souls  with  love  and  faith,  till  they  felt  that  they 
could  die  for  him  and  be  happy ;  as  some  of  them 
did,  and  were. 

Then  it  was  made  known  to  them  that  he  would 
lead  them  away,  and  out  of  Galilee,  towards  Jerusa- 
lem. Mutely  they  followed  the  mysterious  call. 

Near  Bethany,  where  he  had  been  so  beloved,  he 
paused.  It  was  as  if  he  would  come  to  the  home  of 
his  heart  before  he  went. 

There  the  little  group  understood  suddenly  that 
they  were  to  lose  him.  It  needed  no  parting  words, 
although  he  spoke  them.  His  eye,  his  smile,  his  out- 
stretched hands,  became  remote.  Ecstasy  enwrapped 
him.  Mistiness  began  to  blend  upon  him.  The  air 
between  himself  and  them  trembled. 

They  dared  not  entreat  him.  .  .  .  Now  something 
graver  than  joy,  but  which  was  not  sadness,  touched 
his  expression.  His  eyes  followed  them  wistfully ; 
pity  was  the  last  look,  as  it  had  been  the  first,  that 
they  saw  upon  his  face.  Then  love  unutterable 
blinded  all  other  consciousness,  whether  in  himself 
or  in  those  whom  he  left.  His  voice  ceased.  His 
features  dimmed.  His  form  faded.  A  delicate  cloud 
received  him.  He  melted  into  it,  and  was  not. 

Thus  vanished  from  the  earth  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
the  Son  of  God. 

Evil  never  touched  his  spirit.  Corruption  did  not 
approach  his  body.  Even  his  ashes  were  not  per- 
mitted to  remain  in  the  soil  of  the  land  that  had 
slain  him. 


THE   ASCENSION 


THE  RESURRECTION  AND  THE  LIFE       413 

He  was  born  in  denial  of  the  laws  of  life.  He 
died  in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  death.  He  was  Lord 
of  law.  Ideal  of  sacrifice,  Master  of  suffering,  the 
grandest  intellect,  the  purest  heart  that  this  low 
world  has  known  —  its  Supreme  Soul  —  he  passed. 

He  has  left  us  the  faith  which  bears  his  name. 
He  has  left  us  the  august  opportunity  of  everlasting 
life. 


"Many  other  signs  .  .  .  did  Jesus  .  .  .  which  are 
not  written  in  this  book ;  but  these  are  written  that  ye 
may  believe  that  Jesus  is  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  God."  — 
THE  DEAR  DISCIPLE. 


CAMBRIDGE,   MASSACHUSETTS,   U.  S.  A. 

ELECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

H.  O.    HOUGHTON  AND  CO. 


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